


Lonely Hearts Club

by carmellax



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fake Marriage, M/M, Multi, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:52:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 59,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmellax/pseuds/carmellax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flat-mates Grantaire and Éponine have no luck in the romance department, and this lonely hearts shtick is getting old. In lieu of actual reciprocated feelings, it never hurts to have a back-up plan...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this post on tumblr:  
> http://calibornbooty.tumblr.com/post/52007120474/okay-what-if-modern-au-where-eponine-and
> 
> so this is my first fanfiction in about 5 years so I hope it's not too awful!!
> 
> éponine and grantaire are basically my brotp

Éponine, always the lady, spat on her hand and presented it to Grantaire. He spat, with a little less vehemence, on his own. They shook hands, and the Pact was made.

It probably didn’t deserve the capital letter with which they both mentally ascribed it, but it was still a binding agreement. Neither had broken a promise to the other in the many years for which they had been friends, and they weren’t about to start now.

Grantaire had befriended Éponine in high school. Or had she befriended him? Either way, they had become friends after Éponine insisted on taking Grantaire to the nurse’s office with a black eye. She had given him the black eye in the first place, but he didn’t mention this to the nurse. In return, she had let him keep his lunch money, and a friendship had blossomed. They had been roommates in college, and were currently flat-mates in Paris. And now, with that handshake, they were engaged. In a manner of speaking.

 

\---

 

It had all started about seven months ago, in February. Valentine’s Day had just passed, leaving Éponine gloomy and Grantaire with a killer hang-over. Neither of them were having much luck in the romance department. Grantaire hadn’t even been on a date in two years, unless you counted drunken hook-ups in the back of clubs. Éponine did not count them. She _had_ been on a few dates, which never led anywhere. Most recently was a fling with a guy named Montparnasse, who had been great in bed, but had a daily beauty regimen that was longer than her own. Although she quite liked a man who wasn’t afraid to embrace his feminine side, she had to draw the line somewhere. The line came after three weeks of daily facemasks, and she had ended it.

In a bid to cheer them both up, Grantaire had asked Éponine if she wanted to grab a coffee somewhere new. She did. And so they did.

They found the Café Musain after a little wandering around, and agreed that it would do. Éponine took her coffee black, and Grantaire took his Irish. It was only 11AM, but he explained to her that if the alcohol was _in_ something then it didn’t really qualify as drinking.

And that was when _they_ had entered: a group of young men, probably around the same age as Éponine and Grantaire, who chattered loudly as they ordered their coffee and squashed themselves around the largest table. Among them, Éponine couldn’t help but notice, was the cutest guy she had ever seen. He had stupid hair that swept up to a peak; constellations of freckles that adorned his high cheekbones; expressive eyes; thick lashes; a soft mouth; and a smile that shone across the room and made her stomach flip. She could not stop stealing glances of him as he laughed and talked with his friends, with mannerisms that were frustratingly dorky and charming in equal parts. If you gave him a blindfold, he could have been Eros. Éponine enjoyed _that_ image for a moment or ten. If she had been thinking clearly, she may have found it odd that Grantaire wasn’t teasing her already, but the thought didn’t occur to her.

The thought didn’t occur to Grantaire either, who had also been watching the group with a forced attempt at nonchalance. This was because, across from Éponine’s Eros, Apollo was sat at the table. Or at least, that was the name that Grantaire found himself giving the man, and it seemed to fit. He was the spitting image of the god of the sun, with blonde hair that shone like a halo around his head, and features that could have been carved by an Ancient Greek sculptor.

Grantaire found himself foolishly imagining what it would be like to paint that stern brow, the strong jaw, and the lips that were almost feminine. He could practically smell the oil paint that would capture that granite hardness in his clear eyes – manganese blue, perhaps? No: ultramarine. If only he could afford to buy the natural pigment! Somehow the idea of painting ‘Apollo’ in a synthetic paint seemed sacrilegious.

Grantaire was just as entranced as Éponine, committing to memory ‘Apollo’s’ slight scowl as he spoke, and the charisma that radiated from his gestures and expressions as he argued something with the man beside him.

And so the pair of them had sat in silence, their coffees getting cold, until the group of men left. Then their eyes had met over the forgotten mugs, and they burst into synchronised laughter over their own ridiculousness.

It took a few more weeks of ‘accidentally’ buying coffee at the same time as the other group before Éponine decided that, fuck it, she would just introduce herself. She dragged Grantaire along behind her, and they both joined the current debate (about the merits of socialism) with verve.

Now it was September, and Éponine and Grantaire were a permanent fixture within the group, who called themselves _Les Amis_. Both were still hopelessly fixated on ‘their’ men – Marius and Enjolras, respectively – and these men were oblivious idiots who wouldn’t know a flirtation if it smacked them in the face.

 

\---

 

Éponine had just returned from her shift at the convenience store, to find Grantaire flopped on the sofa, covered in paint and swigging from a wine bottle. She’d known him long enough to guess what that meant.

“The date went badly, then?”

Grantaire groaned and propped himself up on one elbow to face Éponine. “I’m such a twat.”

“Yes, I know that. Mind telling me why, specifically?”

Éponine had hoped that setting Grantaire up with one of her work colleagues would be beneficial to him, if only to distract him from his crush on Enjolras. She had been sure that it would be a success. _Well, we all make mistakes_ , she thought.

“It was going so damn well. We had plenty of shared interests – and you were right, he’s gorgeous – and anyway we got to talking about our romantic histories.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yeah and well I’d already had a bit to drink. Just a few shots, you know, nothing big, but I guess I was feeling honest because of it. So then he asked me about my normal type and-”

“You fucking didn’t?”

Grantaire sighed, taking another deep draught from the wine bottle. “Okay so I told the damn guy about Enjolras.”

“And he…?”

“Left pretty quickly.”

Éponine shook her head despairingly, and perched on the arm of the sofa next to Grantaire’s feet. He shuffled into a slightly more up-right position, proffering the bottle. She took it gratefully, although she had to note that it was almost empty already.

“Will you never learn? The whole idea of going on the date in the first place was to distract you from Enjolras, after all.”

“Yeah I know. But it’s kind of hard when all the time I’m thinking… Well, you know.” He covered his face with one arm, voice trailing off in embarrassment. Éponine waited patiently for him to find the right words. “When I’m always comparing these other guys to him. So this one you set me up with – what was his name again? Henri, yeah that was it. Okay so he _was_ good-looking, and you were right that he had nice hair, but all that I could think every time I looked at his hair was how it was _wrong_. It was too neat and dark and straight and just…” He let out a disgruntled sigh rather than finishing the sentence. “So then I thought ‘hey he has a nice nose, at least’, until I realised that the only reason I was thinking that was because it’s like Enjolras’ nose. And it was nice to speak to someone who shared so many interests with me and agreed with what I was saying about politics-”

“You were talking about politics on a _date_?”

“Shut up, I haven’t finished soliloquising yet. So yes, he was agreeing with me about _politics_ , and I couldn’t even enjoy that because I was just imagining what Enjolras would have to say. I mean, even I could see the holes in my arguments and this Henri guy was just nodding along with them like a complete tool.”

Éponine patted his knee soothingly. This was all part of a familiar routine – they had even begun to jokingly refer to themselves as the ‘Lonely Hearts Club’. This was partly because the routine always involved lamenting their love lives, and partly because Grantaire would often insist that they listen to Éponine’s _Marina and the Diamonds_ playlist while doing so.

“Well, if you can’t stop fixating on Enjolras, maybe you should just do the obvious thing and ask him out.” She knew Grantaire would never do it, and she’d made the suggestion a thousand times before. But what else was there to say?

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Same reason you can’t ask Marius out.”

Éponine winced. “I _did_ ask him out, remember? And he shot me down pretty badly. But _you_ , oh Casanova, will not know until you try.”

“Ép, you had known him for half a week and you asked him if he wanted to help you drive the getaway car for your dad. That is not the same thing: any reasonable person would have declined.”

“You agreed.”

“I said any _reasonable_ person. I never said that I was an exemplar for that. Anyway, you could very well try again and you haven’t and it’s for the same reason.”

Éponine took another drink from the bottle. The wine was cheap and crappy, and the aftertaste of prunes made her suspect that it had been open for a few days. She didn’t really care.

“What are we going to do, R?”

“Die alone.”

Éponine laughed dryly, returning the bottle to him. “It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for mum – I swear every time I see her she has to bring up grandkids. Apparently if I don’t tie the knot soon then I will be past my shelf-life and no man will be interested in me – not even you. She’ll be damned if she’s going to deal with a spinster for a daughter. I went to visit her this morning – she says hi, by the way. She also wants to know when you’re going to do the proper thing and propose, rather than indecently leeching off me like a parasite.”

“She always did like me.”

Éponine’s mother had decided long ago that the lengthy cohabitation between Éponine and Grantaire was only explicable if they were banging. No amount of denial (or reassurances of Grantaire’s preference for men) could dissuade her from the idea. The woman was convinced that the two were an item, and in the end it was easier to simply let her believe it. In fact, it had become so far more convenient than the truth that they had let Grantaire’s parents believe it, too. His family had been determined that he should find the right girl to ‘straighten him out’, and if Éponine being his ‘girlfriend’ meant that they continued to pay his bills then there didn’t seem any harm in it.

The pair fell into silence, passing the bottle back and forth pensively until it was finished.

“You’ll need to buy some more, Ép, I think that was the last one.”

“Oh, _I’ll_ need to buy it, will I?” She gave him a playful punch on the arm, then scooted from the arm of the sofa to sit beside him.  Grantaire muttered an objection, but obligingly bent his knees to make a little more room for her.

“So, what are you going to do about the date situation, R? I could try to work some damage control…”

“Don’t bother. I would only have fucked it up some other way later on. It barely matters. I shall resign myself to being single for life.”

“Stuck with me for life, more like.”

The silence relapsed for a minute or so.

“Maybe your mum’s on to something.”

“Hmm?”

Grantaire shrugged. “We’d get better benefits if we were married. Tax breaks. That kind of thing.”

Éponine laughed. “Tell you what: if Marius never realises his undying love for me, then you can be second choice.”

“You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

They sat a little longer, reflecting on the idea.

“What if we actually did?” Éponine wondered out loud.

Which was why, after another hour of speculating (and after another bottle of wine that had been found behind the wardrobe), they were now hand-in-saliva-coated-hand.

“Okay,” Éponine confirmed. “So, if in two years from now we are still hopeless single losers, then we’ll just marry each other.”

“Hear, hear!” Grantaire agreed, draining the last of the wine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How exactly do you explain to your friends that you’ve made a Pact with your flat-mate and are now her platonic semi-fiancée?"
> 
> In which Grantaire and Éponine share the 'good news' with their friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea how long to leave between uploading chapters
> 
> well anyway, here's the thrilling sequel:

How exactly do you explain to your friends that you’ve made a Pact with your flat-mate and are now her platonic semi-fiancée?

Grantaire had never expected to be asking himself this question, and yet here were he and Éponine, stood outside the Café Musain having that very discussion. Of course they did have to tell _Les Amis_ about it; one could hardly just get married out of the blue. It would be much less confusing in the long-run to make sure that everyone else knew about the Pact, at least in part – and hey, maybe it would incite Enjolras or Marius into action. That was Grantaire’s hope, even if he’d never known Enjolras to be jealous of anyone at any point in their entire acquaintance.

“It’s a shame we don’t have any rings,” said Éponine, from where she was slouched languidly against the wall of the café, a cigarette in hand. “Not that we need them at this point, but it might have been a nice ice-breaker. I’m expecting diamonds, by the way, when it comes to it.”

Grantaire snorted. “If I had the money to buy that kind of bling then I assure you that I wouldn’t be here with you.”

“Oh, such insensitive cruelty!” she exclaimed, clutching at her chest dramatically. “You wicked fiend.”

“I apologise sincerely.”

Éponine pouted, and then ruined it by choking on the smoke she had forgotten to exhale. Grantaire patted her helpfully on the back.

“Stop hitting me, asshole.”

“Oh, excuse me for trying to help!”

She shook her head, but she was smiling. “Right, are we doing this?”

“Ladies first,” he said, gesturing to the door.

Éponine sighed, taking one last drag from her cigarette before crushing it under-foot. “Okay. Here goes nothing.”

The others were already there, sat at the usual table. As per normal, Grantaire’s eyes were drawn immediately to Enjolras. The blonde was stooped over a pile of papers, scribbling something with a red biro. Combeferre leaned in next to him, presumably to suggest an amendment, as Enjolras responded by crossing through what he’d just written. Grantaire tried not to notice the proximity of the two men. He also tried to ignore the familiar prickling of envy across the back of his neck. _Don’t be so stupid_ , he told himself. He knew that what he was witnessing was merely a friendly exchange, but that didn’t stop a small part of him wanting to shove Combeferre aside and lean in towards Enjolras himself.

Realising that he was just stood in the doorway, staring, Grantaire pulled himself together and followed Éponine into the room. While she went to order their coffees at the counter, he sauntered over to the table, and managed to squash a chair between Jehan and Courfeyrac. He wasn’t too worried about interrupting their conversation. Courfeyrac elbowed him playfully in the ribs, but Jehan simply laughed and threw an arm around his shoulders.

“Hey R, we were just talking about-”

“So, who wants to hear the good news?” called Éponine, cutting off Jehan. She pushed Grantaire to the edge of his seat, adeptly lacing her legs into the minute space left so that she could share his chair. There wasn’t really room for both of them, but Grantaire supposed that it would enhance the dramatic effect of the revelation.

Enjolras glanced over at them from where he sat with Combeferre, a slight frown on his face at the disruption. Grantaire could just feel the idiotic grin creeping onto his features at the brief eye-contact, and he tried quickly to quell it.

“I would love to hear the good news, ‘Ponine,” Marius called from where he sat further along the table, leaning around the ever-texting Feuilly.

His polite interest, Grantaire noticed, had Éponine straightening up to sit properly. _Jesus, we really are pathetic_.

“Me and Grantaire are going to get married!”

It wasn’t what Grantaire would have gone for, but he had to admit that it did the trick. A moment of silence greeted the announcement. Grantaire couldn’t help but watch Enjolras, searching his face for any signs of a reaction. Of course it was hopeless – the man’s steely expression never gave much away. If anything, he looked incredulous. It wasn’t that Grantaire had expected him to jump up and challenge Éponine to a duel for his hand in marriage, but his mood still felt a little heavier at Enjolras’ lack of obvious heartbreak.

This privation of emotion was more than compensated for by Jehan bursting into joyful tears, grasping Grantaire’s nearest hand. “I’m so h-happy for you both,” he sobbed. “This is w-wonderful! A marriage at last – I never thought I’d l-live to see the day. C-congratulations!”

“Hold on a moment,” Combeferre frowned, even going so far as to put down his papers. “Don’t you think that this is rather sudden?”

“N-not if they’re in love!”

“It’s not quite like that,” Grantaire said hurriedly, extricating his hand from the weeping man’s grip. He could feel Éponine shaking with suppressed laughter at his shoulder. He kicked her warningly under the table.

“Then what _is_ it like?” asked Combeferre.

“Well,” began Grantaire, trying not to flinch as Éponine kicked him back, harder. “We were just thinking about all the extra benefits and stuff that we could get from it. And our parents would be thrilled.”

Jehan almost shrieked in outrage, whacking Grantaire’s shoulder painfully. “NO!”

“Hey calm down, Prouvaire!” he cried, dodging another blow. The speed at which Jehan could vacillate between emotions was really quite something.

Éponine and Courfeyrac had collapsed into a sniggering heap by now, and Joly and Bossuet seemed to be exchanging money. Marius was sputtering something in confusion; Bahorel was clapping him on the back (a little harder than seemed necessary), while Feuilly muttered in his ear. Combeferre looked murderous. In all, it was pandemonium. The barista behind the service counter resembled a rabbit, faced with an oncoming heavy goods vehicle.

“Stop behaving like children, the lot of you.” Enjolras had stood up, blue eyes fixing the group with a glare that menaced them into silence. Looming over them, eyebrows knotting his statuesque face into a frown, Enjolras looked more than ever like an avenging angel. Even Jehan managed to subdue his tears.

Grantaire suddenly felt very small, and he tried to shrink out of the blonde’s gaze. It didn’t work.

“Grantaire, Éponine.” Grantaire wasn’t sure if his name, in that stern voice, was thrilling or terrifying. Either way, he felt an unpleasant fluttering behind his navel at the sound. “Would you like to explain what you’re talking about sensibly, so that we may return to the more pressing issues at hand?” Here, he gestured to the papers that were now strewn across the table. Grantaire hated the way that such a small question could make him feel like a guilty kid, caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. Hated it, and loved it.

Éponine made a noise like a balloon being deflated. “Really Enj, there’s no need to be such a kill-joy.”

Courfeyrac sounded like he was choking on her other side, presumably in response to the nickname. Enjolras’ rewarding stare was withering.

Grantaire thought that it might be best to step in, before the duo further aggravated the matter. “Okay, all it is, is that Ép and I were thinking we would both benefit from being married to someone, because of our parents and finances and all that. And it’s not like either of us have anyone queuing up to wed us at this exact moment, so we thought it might be a good idea to have a… um, a backup plan, if you will. We already live together anyway.”

“Obviously we’re not going to do it straight away,” Éponine cut in. “But neither of us is getting any younger, you know? So we’ve decided that if, in two years from now, we’re both still single – well, we’ll just marry each other!”

Everyone considered this quietly for a moment.

“That is the worst fucking plan I’ve ever heard,” said Bahorel.

 

\---

 

It was a little later, and the group had separated into smaller units in order to free up table space. Jehan beckoned Grantaire over to the booth he had snagged with Courfeyrac. The expression on his face didn’t leave any room for argument.

“So, what’s this really about, R?” he asked once Grantaire had reluctantly seated himself across from the two men. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them – they were some of his closest friends, in fact – but he couldn’t help but feel that he was sat before a panel of judges. Or possibly a pair of vultures.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sometimes a guy just wants to platonically marry his best friend in two years’ time, you know? No hidden meaning.”

Jehan chose to ignore this response. “You and I both know that there are many reasons for which you would not choose to marry Éponine. Even if we ignore that you’d be bowing to the patriarchal norms against which we are meant to be fighting, there is also the small fact that you are excruciatingly in love.” He paused theatrically for a moment, and then continued in a stage-whisper that was louder than his normal speaking voice, “With Enjolras.”

Grantaire felt his face flushing, as it always did when Jehan returned to this subject. He checked reflexively over his shoulder for fear of being over-heard, but Enjolras was safely engrossed in conversation on the other side of the café.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he mumbled, half-heartedly. “I wouldn’t say ‘excruciatingly in love’. I _like_ him, certainly, but I think that you’re getting a little carried away.”

Jehan made a scoffing noise, and Courfeyrac sniggered: “Jehan? Carried away? You must be mistaken!”

“Anyway, dearest Grantaire,” Jehan resumed, “although it is true that you would never say such a thing, perhaps because you have no appreciation of the beauty of language, it is also true that I am correct. You are – what’s the phrase?” He seemed to search for a moment, although Grantaire was sure that Jehan already knew the exact phrase that he desired. “Ah yes, _whipped_.”

Grantaire lunged across the table at Jehan, who swerved away from him, cackling. In the end, Grantaire contented himself to stealing the poet’s half-finished coffee.

“But seriously, what’re you up to?” asked Courfeyrac, once the scuffle had subsided.

“I am drinking this delicious, if over-sweetened, caffeinated beverage.”

“R…”

“Well mostly it really is as straight-forwards as a backup plan that could lead to financial security and the appeasement of my parents,” Grantaire replied. “And if, in the process of that, the time limit puts pressure on certain individuals to reciprocate romantic feelings then…”

“Ah, jealousy: that dragon which slays love under the pretence of keeping it alive,” Jehan muttered darkly. But then he shook his head and perked up, clapping his hands together like a seal that had just been thrown a particularly juicy fish (and to think, he’d just been belittling Grantaire’s poetic abilities). “This should be fun!”

Grantaire really didn’t feel caffeinated enough to keep up with the poet’s erratic thought patterns. He took another gulp of the recently-liberated coffee, grimacing at the sugary taste. “I’m sorry, what should be fun?”

Jehan waved his hand emphatically. “I graciously accept your request for help, and shall be accomplice to the plan. Of course I shall work tirelessly to unite these sets of fated lovers whose destinies have been thrust into my hands by providence herself. You shall be like Romeo and Juliet, and I: Friar Laurence, and Courf: the Nurse.”

“Jehan, you’ve lost me.”

“Me too. Why am I a nurse? Is this a kinky thing?”

“Also – and I am willing to admit that I never did finish reading the text in high school – but I am reasonably certain that Romeo and Juliet die. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.”

“Can’t they be more like… I don’t know, Gabriella and Troy?”

Jehan threw his hands up in an expression of despair. “Philistines!”

Courfeyrac took the opportunity to tickle him, and the ensuing skirmish lasted several minutes. Thankfully, the topic of conversation was abandoned in its wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is very little that you can do to convince me that Courf is not a fan of hsm
> 
> thank you for reading all this, and super thanks if you left comments or kudos on the last chapter because that really made me stupidly happy!! please do feel free to leave comments on anything, or to contact me on tumblr: http://prouvers.tumblr/ask


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marius and Éponine bond, and Enjolras and Grantaire don't.

As Éponine had expected it to be, the Pact was mostly forgotten by _Les Amis_ in no time at all. Aside from the occasional quips, mostly from Bossuet, it was banished into the shade in lieu of Enjolras’ plans for various political demonstrations.

The next ‘big date’ that was chalked onto the calendar was for a peace rally in early November, in protest of the involvement of French troops in Afghanistan. Combeferre, who was in charge of scheduling, thought that they could take advantage of the holiday period between _La Toussaint_ and _Le jour du Souvenir_ , when the students among them would have free time from their studies, and when the French public would have their minds already turned towards the wars of the past. Éponine was always impressed by how well he planned these things.

The group’s concentration became more and more tightly focused upon preparations for the rally. Enjolras was so tightly wound that he was getting unbearable to be around, endeavouring  to monopolise every moment of their free time. The others were beginning to make up emergencies just to get away from him; Courfeyrac went as far as to ‘accidentally’ spill coffee on himself at one point, and even Combeferre had taken to ducking hurriedly away when he saw the blonde approaching.

But it wasn’t all bad: Éponine had the brilliant idea of volunteering to help with publicity. Although she had always been good at persuading people to turn up to things, this wasn’t the brilliant part of the idea. What gave the idea its brilliance was that Marius was also helping with publicity. Not that this had affected her decision at all. Not a bit.

As the date drew nearer, the weekly meetings became bi-weekly meetings, which became daily meetings, which merged into there-is-no-such-thing-as-spare-time meetings. It may have been tiring, but Éponine wasn’t going to complain about all the time suddenly available to spend with Marius.

Grantaire had agreed to draw up pamphlets for them to hand out (he was probably hoping to impress Enjolras with his drawing skills), and so Marius and Éponine took to the streets of Paris. Éponine considered herself to be pretty ‘street-savvy’, but it quickly emerged that Marius was not. In fact, he was terrible at the job. He was inept at persuasion, and was easily goaded into arguments in which he stumbled over his points and forgot the aims of the group. He looked too scruffy for the wealthier Parisians to give him a second glance, and looked too handsome and naïve for the attention of the opposite end of the spectrum. He dropped his flyers several times. Around pretty girls, he became nervous and squeaky. It would have been maddening, if it wasn’t so damn cute.

“Really, monsieur,” tutted Éponine, as she helped him to gather up his flyers once more.

“Sorry! Sorry! Gosh, I really am bad at this. Sorry, ‘Ponine.”

She laughed at his frantic expression. “I’m going to have to start charging you for all those apologies,” she teased. “Shall we say fifty cents each? You must owe about a hundred Euros already!”

“Ah, yes. Sorry.” He paused for a moment, and then, realising what he had just said, let out a moan of despair.

“I’m just teasing you, dummy! Come along, let’s find someone to proselytise.”

‘ _Come along’? What am I, Mary fucking Poppins?_ Éponine berated herself. She knew that she sounded ridiculous, but she couldn’t seem to keep from using stupidly pretentious language around Marius.

Nevertheless, Éponine enjoyed the chance to joke around and have a laugh with him – they’d never hung out much before, but this was fun. He seemed to enjoy it too, relaxing in her presence as they became more accustomed to one another. On the one hand, this was an excellent sign in terms of the Pact. On the other hand, she could feel herself becoming more and more besotted with him. It made her feel like a giggling school-girl, writing ‘Madame Éponine Pontmercy’ in hearts on her classwork. She’d caught herself doodling his face in one of Grantaire’s sketchbooks the other day. It had been hurriedly erased.

“How about those gentlemen over there?” asked Marius, gesturing to a shady group that lurked at the entrance to an alleyway. Only Marius would have applied the word ‘gentlemen’ to such a grimy collection. Éponine doubted that they would be interested in social reform. Or, at least, in social reform that didn’t involve beating up police officers in empty parking lots.

She was just shaking her head, when something about one of the men struck her as familiar. Yes – that tall, lean figure in sunglasses. _Oh shit_. It was Babet, one of Montparnasse’s old cronies. She really didn’t feel like a run-in with her ex, who hadn’t taken the break up well. It just went to show that wearing eyeliner didn’t detract from a man’s muscular strength. Enjolras would have lauded him as a figurehead in the fight against patriarchy. Sadly, his contribution to the eradication of gender roles had been slightly dampened when he’d called her a ‘whore’ and tried to deck her when she ended it.

And yes, there was Montparnasse, sidling out of the alley like a fox from its lair. She swiftly turned her head and began to march in the opposite direction.

Once Éponine was what she deemed to be a safe distance away, she sank backwards against a wall, waiting for Marius to catch up. He reached her a few seconds later, a little red in the face, and then stood awkwardly next to her.

“Sorry about that. Ex-boyfriend. You know how it is.”

Marius made a noise of agreement, although he didn’t sound too sure.

“He was kind of a bastard, is all. Probably would’ve caused a scene.”

“Ah.”

“Sometimes he can get a little violent, you know?”

“Oh, right.”

“Yeah.”

They stood for a while, catching their breath.

Marius shifted his weight next to her, looking as if he’d like to say something but couldn’t think how to bring it up. She figured she’d help him out. “Yes?”

He gave a short laugh at being caught out. “It’s nothing. I was just wondering… ‘Ponine, you’re not really going to marry R, are you?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. If no one else comes along.”

“Oh. It’s just that… well, I always thought he was, uh, gay?”

“He is.”

“Oh.”

Éponine leaned her head back against the wall so that she could smile up at his face. “It’s not like I’m in love with him either, Marius. It’s a friend thing.”

Marius was frowning, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. “It just doesn’t seem right. What about waiting to find true love? Your other half?”

“You believe in that stuff?”

“Don’t you?”

She didn’t reply, because the only response that her mind offered would have been entirely inappropriate in a public place. But she did smile, because Marius’ concern was definitely a good signal.

 

\---

 

The rally was something of a mixed bag. There was a large enough turn-out, and _Les Amis_ even received some media attention for their work. Enjolras later insisted that this was a success, as it meant publicity for ‘The Cause’. Grantaire was not so sure, as a larger turn-out had just meant a larger punch-up. Enjolras was still refusing to talk to Bahorel, one week later.

As could only have been expected, the media’s reaction wasn’t exclusively positive. Or positive at all, really. Quite a few newspapers had labeled their group as ‘naïve’, ‘trouble-makers’, and even ‘disrespectful’, in protesting against military involvement so close to the days dedicated to honouring veterans. Grantaire didn’t even know what Combeferre had been thinking when he made that terrible decision. And then when the rally, which was promoting _peace_ , had led to a fist-fight…

Of course, all of _Les Amis_ were already aware of their blunder, and so they didn’t need anyone to remind them of it at their next meeting. But Grantaire had never been one to hold back.

“Well you kind of fucked up, didn’t you?”

“Anything that acquaints others with The Cause is beneficial,” was Enjolras’ haughty response. His tone was sharp, but he continued shuffling pamphlets with Courfeyrac without looking up, as if to say ‘Your opinions aren’t worth my time’.

Grantaire felt a familiar twinge irritation at being ignored, laced with disappointment in himself for being so damn ignorable. One part of his brain told him just to drop it: let sleeping dogs lie, and all that. It pointed out that Enjolras was already at the end of his tether from the previous week, and that Grantaire’s constant yearning for attention was ridiculous and childish. The other part of his brain said ‘fuck it’. They both made such compelling arguments.

In the end, as was always the case, it was the latter that won out. Without really thinking about it, he found his mouth opening to retort: “Not if you look like twats in the process – who’ll want to join you if they think you’re a bunch of yobs?”

The blonde glanced up at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Really, Grantaire, we weren’t the instigators of the… disagreement. Any sensible onlooker could see that. We certainly don’t look like twats.”

“Have you seen a mirror lately?”

Enjolras shot up, slamming a hand on the table. If he were in a comic book, Grantaire rather thought that steam would be billowing from the other man’s ears. _Well, at least I have his attention_.

“Be serious for once!”

“I _am_ being serious,” Grantaire replied, trying to sound it. “It was a serious question: how do you expect to gain support if everyone thinks you’re a douche? It doesn’t matter whether you _are_ a douche or not – it’s about people thinking that you are because of what the tabloids have been saying.”

“Once the people have understood The Cause behind our actions they will see past the media’s attempts to vilify us. A small amount of slander now will be the worth-while price of the support that it will bring to us in the future!”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, knowing that this would enrage Enjolras further. “ _Please_ , the people aren’t going to bother swotting up on ‘The Cause’. Nobody actually cares about social action.”

“Then explain to me why it is that our twitter account has enjoyed an influx of followers since the rally, or why our website has received more hits in the past week than in the entire year beforehand.”

“Because they think you’re an exciting anarchist pressure group. Once they figure out that you’re just a handful of middle-class idealists who’ve read a little Marx, playing at-” Grantaire trailed off, realising that he’d probably gone too far. He could hear Courfeyrac hissing through his teeth, and several of the others were now watching with wide eyes for Enjolras’ reaction.

The blonde’s face set into a stony mask, and his eyes glowered dangerously. Grantaire had to physically stop himself from flinching back. _Fuck_. Why could he never just keep his mouth shut?

When Enjolras spoke, his voice was cold and menacingly low. “Is that all that this is to you? Simply a game for rich young boys to play?”

Grantaire back-pedaled quickly, “Uh no that’s not what I, um… I mean, it’s just that that’s what you might look like to… to an outsider.”

“So what does that make _you_ , Grantaire? Because you don’t believe in any of our aims; you criticise every movement that we make; and you only turn up to these meetings to distract us and to drink: right now you’re looking like an outsider to me.”

Okay, that stung. Grantaire struggled to keep the easy smile fixed on his face.

“Hey that’s not fair, Enjolras!” Bahorel protested, half-rising from where he had been comparing bruises with Jehan. “Grantaire’s just as much a part of this group as the rest of us.”

Grantaire turned briefly to Bahorel, holding up a hand to indicate that it was okay. It wasn’t okay, of course; not when the dazzling face of Enjolras was furrowed with anger and disappointment because of him. But Grantaire was damned if he was going to let him, or any of the others, see him back down now. He did have _some_ vestiges of dignity left in himself.

 “Well, I’m sorry if I’m the only one that realises your dreams of peace and equality are bullshit. I mean, all these plans for social action are a total train-wreck waiting to happen. Someone needs to call you out on that before you get your asses handed to you – handed to you more than they were last week, anyway  – and I am willing to take on that duty. Maybe, if I express what a terrible waste of time it all is enough, one day you’ll actually take my advice and give up. So, in answer to your question, what I am is a little warning light, beeping at you.”

“We don’t need a warning light.”

“Well that’s tough titties, because you’ve got one.”

“No, we haven’t,” Enjolras spat back. “Go home, Grantaire. Your ‘advice’ isn’t welcome here.”

Grantaire blinked at him. No matter how much they’d argued in the past, he had never actually been _kicked out_ by Enjolras. Surely he didn’t _mean_ it?

“I mean it.”

“But…”

The blonde’s fists were visibly clenched at his sides, trembling slightly as if he was restraining himself from leaping at Grantaire. His mouth was set in a harsh line, upper lip twitching with the shadow of a snarl. Faced with the full force of Enjolras’ anger, Grantaire felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

“ _Leave_.”

And so Grantaire left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....and so the drama begins. i guess?
> 
> one of my weaknesses in writing has always been dialogue, so i'm trying to address that in writing this. is what i'm doing working? i really have no idea how to balance dialogue with description, or how to make it sound genuine, but i suppose that it's all a learning curve. or something. hopefully i'm improving with this practice.
> 
> for anyone interested, La Toussaint is All Saints' Day, and Le jour du Souvenir is Remembrance/Armistice Day.
> 
> um so i think that's about all that i have to say on this chapter. thank you for your continued readership, or what have you. i really appreciate it! please do come and speak to me in the comments, or hmu on tumblr (http://prouvers.tumblr.com/ask), because i'd love to hear what you think of this, any suggestions etc.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which interventions are attempted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the feedback on the last chapter! i've tried to address the suggestions, which were really useful :)

On returning to the apartment, Éponine was greeted with a haze of cigarette smoke, so thick that it could almost be considered sentient.  Pervading this was the heady tang of whiskey fumes, and strains of music that sounded suspiciously like _Marina and the Diamonds_. None of this boded well for how Grantaire was dealing with the argument. After opening some windows, and a quick search of the apartment, she managed to locate him. He was in his bed.

“Stop obsessing over it,” she said, in lieu of a greeting.

The chrysalis of blankets twitched slightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What happened with Enjolras,” Éponine continued patiently, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe in a surreptitious attempt to block the exit. If he thought he was getting out of the conversation, he had another think coming.

“I’m not obsessing.”

“Yes you are.”

“Not.”

“Then why is _Starring Role_ looping on the iPod? _My_ iPod?”

“Because I like- Ouch!”

Éponine had sat heavily on what she presumed were his legs. It was difficult to tell under all the bedding.

“Get _off_.”

 “Not until you’ve stopped over-reacting.”

Grantaire made a rather rude noise in response, but she deigned to ignore it. “Come on, you fall out at least once a week – it will all blow over, as per usual.”

“No it won’t. He hates me.”

“Really, R, he can’t win with you, can he? If he’s polite then you’re convinced he’s aloof because he hates you, but then when he engages with you, you’re _still_ convinced it’s because he hates you! Maybe he doesn’t hate you at all – have you considered that?”

There was a pause. “Well he doesn’t like me.”

“Bullshit! He loves arguing with you.”

Grantaire shifted beneath her, pushing his face into his pillow. “That’s not the same as liking me,” he mumbled. “Anyway, you heard what he said today. He doesn’t want me there anymore because I’m disruptive and useless. I _know_ I’m disruptive, but I was only trying to help. I thought my criticisms were meant to be, I don’t know, useful in strengthening their arguments or something. Obviously I was wrong, and it was just annoying him all along. I’m surprised he didn’t kick me out sooner…”

“This is ridiculous! Enj wasn’t being serious.” Or at least, she didn’t _think_ that the banishment was sincere. Enjolras had been tightly wound after their disastrous rally, and she knew from personal experience that Grantaire’s brand of sarcasm could be somewhat trying; anyone would have snapped in that situation. Once he’d cooled down, Enjolras would get over it.

“If you just phone him up and apolog–”

“No! He doesn’t want to talk to me, Ép. I can’t just _phone_ him.”

She groaned in exaggerated weariness. “Okay, well then you can apologise to him at the next meeting.”

There was no reply.

“So what, you’re just going to give up coming to meetings, bail out on all your friends, and slowly ferment in your bed?”

“That’s the plan.”

Éponine decided it was best to leave him to it, for the time being. Knowing Grantaire, he’d have changed his mind by the next day, once the whiskey had worn off. He could never stay away from Enjolras for long.

 

\---

 

Despite Éponine’s convictions, Grantaire showed no sign of changing his mind the next morning, or the next, or the one after that. _He just needs time_ , she continued to tell herself, as the days crept into weeks.

To his credit, her flat-mate carried on as if nothing had happened past that first day, and Éponine’s iPod remained unexpectedly in her own possession. But every Thursday, as she primped and prepped herself for the group’s meetings, he would disappear from the apartment, only returning long after Éponine was asleep for the night.

If _Les Amis_ were surprised that first Thursday, when Éponine arrived at the Café Musain without her near-constant companion, they did a good job of avoiding the subject. Nevertheless, Grantaire’s absence was certainly felt: it hung heavily about the café, subtly present in the eyes that flickered over Éponine’s shoulder whenever she came through the door; in the extra chaired pulled up alongside Joly that always remained empty; in the tiny pauses in Enjolras’ tirades, where he would glance up, as if expecting an interruption. The proverbial elephant in the room was almost tangible.

At home, Grantaire was stubbornly silent on the topic of Enjolras and The Argument; no amount of prompting could convince him to just _phone_ the damn guy and be reconciled. If Éponine braved the subject, he would just state that ‘he doesn’t want me there – it’s fine’. On Enjolras’ part, he never once mentioned the other man. Whether this was because he didn’t care, or because he simply never expressed emotions for anything non-political, Éponine couldn’t tell. More than anything, she just wanted to grab both men and bang their heads together until they saw sense.

“Do you think Enjolras feels bad about it?” she asked Marius, as they walked together.

Once he had realised that they lived only a few streets from one another, the young man had insisted on seeing her back to her apartment after meetings. He claimed that it was the gentlemanly thing to do, now that she was making the journey through the dark Parisian streets alone, and – although the notion of chivalry was one of those that _Les Amis_ were treating as outdated and sexist – she found it rather sweet of him.

“Do you think Enjolras feels _anything_?” Marius replied, and then turned a little red at his own brutality.

Éponine snorted a laugh.

“Sorry; you know that he and I don’t always see eye-to-eye. I think he tries too hard to be rational, and just ends up seeming like…”

“A machine?”

“Yes, exactly!” he grinned. “Anyway, I know that I spend a lot of time around him, but he only really speaks about politics and activism. To be honest, sometimes I feel like I hardly know him. Then again, perhaps ‘The Cause’ is such an integral part of his personality that there’s nothing else to know.”

Éponine shrugged. “Surely he must miss Grantaire, at least a little. Has he really not mentioned it at all? He’s always struck me as someone who cares about his friends, even if his friends are little shits like R.”

“But he and Grantaire weren’t really friends, were they?” Marius frowned. “I always got the impression that they didn’t much like each other.”

“You what?”

“They were always arguing! People who like each other don’t argue that much. And Grantaire was always drawing those silly little sketches of Enjolras to annoy him, and calling him names like ‘Apollo’ and – what was it? – ‘Orestes’.”

Unable to believe that even Marius could be so oblivious of other people’s feelings, Éponine burst into laughter. It was only when she was wheezing for breath that she noticed the genuine confusion on his freckled face. Wow, the guy was dense.

“Marius, that’s called flirting, you idiot! That’s _exactly_ how people behave when they like each other. Or, more accurately, when they ‘like’ each other,” she added, performing the air quotes with one hand.

“They… pardon? You’re saying that Grantaire wants to… date Enjolras?” The slight squeak in his voice on the word ‘date’ was almost as comical as the shock in his wide eyes. Éponine really despaired for her past attempts at flirting: evidently seduction was a foreign concept to Marius.

She nodded blithely. “Date; kiss; fuck against a wall.”

Marius made a small choking noise at the last suggestion, but didn’t choose to comment on it. His ears had gone distinctly scarlet, although that might have been due to the chilly night air.

They walked in silence for the rest of their journey, and Éponine was beginning to think that she had pushed Marius into a catatonic state with her ‘grown-up’ language. However, when they reached the door, he smiled at her happily enough. “Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful, ‘Ponine. If anyone, I think he’d be most likely to talk to Courf or ‘Ferre about it. Maybe ask one of them?”

She thanked him with a quick hug, and made a mental note to take him up on his advice.

 

\---

 

Enjolras _hadn’t_ mentioned Grantaire to Courfeyrac, much to the brunette’s irritation. Grantaire was a good laugh, and Courfeyrac had thoroughly enjoyed his derision and humour at the weekly meetings, but now – thanks to Enjolras – his face-time with the cynic had sharply decreased. Outside the normal activities of _Les Amis_ , Courfeyrac and Grantaire led adequately separate lifestyles that they simply didn’t run into one another. With Grantaire avoiding any place where he might run into Enjolras – and with the majority of Courfeyrac’s free time being spent around that very man, by necessity – meeting up with the cynic proved quasi-impossible to schedule. Courfeyrac had barely seen his friend in the past month, of which the obvious cause was Enjolras. Accordingly, it should be Enjolras who would fix it. Everyone seemed to be agreed on this. Everyone but Enjolras.

“We should stage an intervention!” proclaimed Jehan, having listened attentively to Courfeyrac’s woes.

“You sound far too excited about that.”

The poet shrugged, taking a sip of his Cosmopolitan. The pair were sat at the bar of the Corinthe, another favourite haunt of _Les Amis_. It had won out over the Musain when Courfeyrac called on Jehan for a bitching session, as it had the advantage of serving alcohol. It was also appealing in that Enjolras didn’t often visit, due to the nature of the beverages, and so they could gossip without too much fear of him overhearing. Plus, the fair-haired barmaid – Gibelotte – was quite pretty, in a sleepy sort of way.

“It’s a chance to scheme; of course I’m excited.”

“Enjolras won’t listen – I’ve tried and tried–”

“Ah, but you were at the distinct disadvantage of not being me. If _I_ corner him, he’ll have to listen. After all: who can say ‘no’ to this pretty face?” Jehan flipped his strawberry-blonde tresses, and batted his eyelashes sweetly.

Courfeyrac laughed, shaking his head. “If anyone can, it’s Enj.”

“Then we’ll have to get tactical. So, we corner him in a scissoring maneuver, one on each side. Then we grab him, and I’ll talk at him until he responds. Sound like a plan?”

Courfeyrac stared at him blankly for a moment. “Sorry, I got distracted at ‘scissoring’. Can you run that by me again?”

“I said: we’ll both grab him. I’ll approach from the front, and you can take him from behind–”

At this, Courfeyrac nearly choked on his Jack and Coke. “Jehan,” he spluttered, “could you please describe this with less provocative language?”

The other man smiled fiendishly. “Well, we could always just tie him up and–”

“You know what, that’s enough planning. Let’s just do it.”

“Now who’s making innuendos?”

Courfeyrac gave his friend a playful shove. “Shut up. Right, shall we do… I mean, shall we _stage our intervention_ now?”

“You haven’t finished your drink.”

The brunette chugged the rest quickly, then slammed the glass back on the bar. “Ready to go, then?” he asked, stifling a belch.

“You’re disgusting,” Jehan laughed, but he stood up obligingly.

Making sure to leave a tip for Gibelotte (along with a phone number and cheeky wink from Courfeyrac), the two men left the Corinthe, arm-in-arm, to seek out their target.

 

\---

 

Enjolras’ expression was not very welcoming when Courfeyrac and Jehan arrived at the door to his apartment.

“What do you want?”

“Yes, good evening to you, too, lovely Enjolras,” Jehan greeted brightly.

“It’s 2 AM.”

“Well then, good morning!” Courfeyrac beamed, shoving past Enjolras, into the hallway. “Thanks for inviting us in.”

Jehan smiled sweetly at the glowering blonde, and slid past him to enter the open-plan kitchen-living -dining-room. Seeing that Courfeyrac had already made himself comfortable on the sofa, Jehan vaulted the coffee table and settled in beside him.

“Won’t you please sit down?” Jehan invited, gesturing to the armchair placed on the opposite side of the coffee table.

Enjolras scowled, and perched lightly on one of its arms.

“If you wake Combeferre, he will murder you,” he warned them sourly. “That is, if I haven’t already done so. This had better be important.”

Clearing his throat, Courfeyrac inched forwards to the edge of his seat. “Enjolras,” he said, in what Jehan presumed was his attempt at an understanding voice. He paused, and then leant forwards over the coffee table and – after a brief struggle – managed to catch one of Enjolras’ hands between his own. “Enjolras, we just want you to know that we are here for you. We want to help you, because we’re your friends. You can overcome this – I know you can – and I’ll be here to help you every step of the way. But this is something that needs to be faced. It needs to be faced _now_. What I’m trying to say, Enjolras, is that you have been a massive fucking dildo. Like, the biggest silicone sex toy you can imagine. That’s you.”

Enjolras did not seem very impressed by this speech, and tore his hand away from Courfeyrac. “You’re drunk,” he muttered.

“Oh no, I’d say he’s tipsy,” Jehan corrected helpfully. “He’s also right – you were really out of line in the way you treated poor R.”

“I… pardon?” Enjolras blinked at him, frown melting into open confusion. “This is about… Grantaire?”

“Yes!” exclaimed Courfeyrac. “What else would it be about?”

“It… I… Why _would_ it be about him?”

“Well, for starters you chased him out of the group.”

“And we’ve barely seen him since,” added Jehan.

Enjolras shook his head perplexedly. “No that’s not what happened. He chose to… He just stopped coming back to meetings, didn’t he? Because he didn’t agree with our ideals, and because he didn’t like my leadership.”

Jehan let out a laugh of amazement, before remembering that they were meant to be keeping the noise down for fear of waking Enjolras’ flat-mate. “Enjolras, you told him to leave!”

“No, I… I told him to go home, yes, because he was being difficult. But only for that one evening – I didn’t tell him not to come back!”

Courfeyrac and Jehan exchanged a look of exasperation. “Don’t you think,” began Jehan, “that he might have interpreted your command to ‘leave’ as an expulsion from the group?”

Enjolras visibly blanched. Obviously he _hadn’t_ thought of that beforehand.

“Grantaire knows that I wouldn’t… He… Oh God.” The blonde let his head sink into his hands. “I thought he’d just gotten bored,” he groaned.

“You’re a complete fucking idiot,” Courfeyrac said, reaching over to pat his shoulder.

“Oh God.”

Jehan felt a small twinge of pity at Enjolras’ distress – if he cared about anything as much as ‘The Cause’, it was his friends. And, despite his constant vexation with Grantaire, Enjolras did regard him as a friend. Although the blonde could sometimes be insensitive to the emotions of others, Jehan knew that he’d never want to accidentally hurt someone for whom he cared. He was probably already working himself up over his ill-chosen words. The poet winced in sympathy.

“It’s okay, Enjolras,” he reassured, “evidently you didn’t mean to upset him. I’m sure that if you just apologise then this will all be over, and we can go back to normal.”

Enjolras seemed to slump even more at the suggestion – he had always hated giving apologies, Jehan seemed to remember. _Well, serves him right_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song to which grantaire was listening was 'starring role' by marina and the diamonds, which you can listen to here:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SYnE7Y7daYQ
> 
> and while we're listening to marina songs, the title of this fic is lifted from her song 'lonely hearts club'  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NeDe89NnC9M
> 
> that's about all that i have to say, i think. i hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which apologies are hindered by holiday plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to every one who's been reading, leaving comments and kudos etc. like wow i can't believe anyone actually wants to read this stuff

The next morning found Grantaire fighting a losing battle with a roll of wrapping paper. Maybe it was only because he’d woken at 6AM, and hadn’t yet dosed up on caffeine, but the jovial Santas definitely seemed to be mocking his inaptitude. Giving up on the paper, he shoved the last present into a spare carrier bag and taped it shut. He was sure that Éponine wouldn’t mind missing out on the full festive experience – at least this year he hadn’t waited until Christmas Eve to buy presents.

As if on cue, the door clattered open to reveal the woman in all her bleary-eyed, bed-headed glory. Normally it was Éponine who was the early riser – although, at 7:30AM, one might still consider it to be early – but Grantaire had purposefully set his alarm so that he could carry out his task without fear of interruption.  It had obviously been a good idea, as she didn’t deign to knock before entering.

“Ah, could it be that sleeping beauty has risen?”

She glared at him, stifling a yawn. “Shut up and pack your bags. Just got off the phone with mum. Invited us over for Crimbo. Ten minutes. Go.” Obviously the part of her brain that provided full sentences was still asleep.

Grantaire frowned up at her. “It’s the 20th,” he pointed out, “isn’t five days a little long for a family Christmas? Especially when it’s _your_ family. No offense.”

Éponine shuffled over to his bed, settling herself down on the edge. “We both already booked this week off work. It’s not like we’re doing anything,” she mumbled. “And Gav and Azzie’ll be home alone, ‘cause of school break. I just thought it might cheer you up, being around different people.”

At this, Grantaire bristled. “I don’t need cheering up!”

“C’mon, R, you’ve been a right grump lately. Besides, you like the kids. It’ll be fun.”

He shrugged. “Fine. Whatever.” It was true that he _did_ like the younger Thénardiers, and if his compliance meant that they wouldn’t have to spend their holiday fending for themselves, so be it.

“Great.” Éponine managed a lethargic grin. “You now have five minutes to pack.”

“What happens if I don’t meet the time requirements?”

“Then our lift drives off without you and you have to walk to the other side of Paris.”

Grantaire begrudgingly grabbed his travel bag from under the bed, and proceeded to stuff it with the nearest garments to hand. Éponine gave him a helpful thumbs-up, and left him to it.

 

\---

 

The drive to the Thénardiers’ was certainly an experience. Grantaire had been expecting Éponine’s dad in the family cut-and-shut, and so was rather surprised when a sleek Audi pulled up against the curb. At first, neither of them took any notice of it, remaining shivering in the morning air. It was only when the tinted window was rolled down to reveal Gueulemer – one of M. Thénardier’s ‘business partners’ – that Grantaire realised that the car was for Éponine and himself.

“Have to keep your bags in the foot-well,” the large man instructed. “Trunk’s full.”

“With what?” Éponine asked suspiciously, climbing into the backseat with Grantaire.

“Just some little gifts I’ve got for your dad, Ép,” answered another voice.

Grantaire felt Éponine stiffen next to him. Before he could place the voice himself, the speaker – sat in the passenger seat – turned around to smile at them.

“Good to see you again, ‘Taire,” said Montparnasse.

“Monty’s just coming along for the ride,” said Gueulemer, pulling away from the curb. “Didn’t think you’d mind, seeing how you’re all mates.”

Éponine made a noncommittal noise, but she had visibly paled at the sight of her ex-boyfriend. Grantaire reached quietly to squeeze her hand in reassurance. He’d heard about how nasty the other man could turn, from Éponine, but it wasn’t like he’d try anything in the car. That said, if he _did_ decide to upset Éponine in any way, then Grantaire was pretty confident that he was more than a match for the youth. Actually, Éponine could probably take him to the cleaners herself.

Gueulemer navigated the Parisian traffic system with all the elegance of an angry rhinoceros, disregarding red lights, road signs, cycle lanes, and even an elderly woman foolhardy enough to begin crossing the road in his path. However, by some miracle, the car remained unscathed, and he traversed the twisting warren of back-roads and side-streets with impressive dexterity. Grantaire was left with the impression of a sewer-rat scurrying back to its nest.

Montparnasse seemed determined to keep up an uncomfortable rally of conversation throughout the drive. “You’re looking good, Ép – maybe a little chunky; you should probably watch that. Anyway, how’s life? Fucking anyone new? No? Sucks for you. How ‘bout you, ‘Taire: finally hooking up with that lady-boy? Calm down – I’m only messing with you! Although it _is_ true. Hey, Ép, how old’s your sister now? Seventeen. Huh. She looks older – must be the boobs. Funny how you missed out on that gene.”

Eventually, Grantaire elected simply to tune him out.

The arrived at the Thénardiers’ squat, terraced house, at just about the right time: if they’d driven for any longer, Grantaire rather thought that Éponine would have gone full Amazonian-warrior on her ex. The marks where her nails had been digging into Grantaire’s palm for the past twenty minutes were really starting to smart.

Gueulemer gestured for the two of them to go on alone, while he and Montparnasse attended to the contents of the trunk. It was probably best not to think too much about what might be in there.

Grantaire and Éponine made their way into the bottle-neck corridor of the house – the front door was never locked, as the Thénardiers weren’t the type to be on the receiving end of crime – and through to the grotty kitchen. Mme. Thénardier had already left for a day of ‘business’ with her husband, even though it was only 9AM, and Grantaire could hardly imagine what shady dealings could be conducted before lunchtime. _Then again, evil never sleeps_ , he conceded. A note left on the kitchen table indicated that they could dump their stuff in the lounge, and “ _set up sofabed ur own bloody selfs_ ”.

“Have I ever told you what a charming woman your mother is?”

Éponine smirked, crumpling the note and depositing it in the carrier bag that served as a dustbin. “I think you’ve mentioned it.”

A pattering of feet on stairs heralded the appearance of Gavroche. Éponine’s younger brother was just beginning to take on that ‘lanky’ look which is common to young boys who are brushing the outer periphery of puberty. Accordingly, he was clad in a knock-off hoody, and jeans that sagged at the waist, despite the presence of a belt. Grantaire wasn’t sure if he’s perhaps reached the age where one is ‘too cool’ for enthusiasm, but that illusion was shattered the moment Gavroche set eye on them.

The boy practically jumped at Éponine, managing to get her in a headlock despite her height advantage. She protested good-naturedly, and Grantaire let her struggle for a moment before swooping in to pull Gavroche’s snapback (he could almost hear Courfeyrac weeping) down over the boy’s face.

After a few more affectionate drubbings, Grantaire and Éponine were allowed to deposit their stuff in the living room.

“You’d better not of forgotten my presents,” Gavroche warned them, as he bounded back upstairs.

“Yeah, I’ve got this big lump of coal right here for you!” Grantaire called after him, extricating the terribly-wrapped gifts from his travel bag.

Éponine arranged them prettily under the ‘tree’, which was about eight inches tall and made of blue tinsel. She frowned at the one packaged in a carrier bag. “I hope for your sake that this isn’t for me, R.”

He took a mental note to re-wrap it at the nearest possible opportunity, and hurriedly changed the subject. “Speaking of forgetting things, I think I left my phone at home.”

“Well, you can borrow mine if you need to call someone,” Éponine offered, turning away from the offending gift. “Anyway, I sent a group message to _Les Amis_ on Facebook to let them know we’d be away, so they probably won’t try to call you. Most of them will be doing their own family stuff, I reckon. And it’s not like you’ve got anyone else you’d want to talk to.”

Grantaire shrugged. She was right; he could be away from his phone for a few days without the world ending.

 

\---

 

Enjolras put down his third coffee, and re-read Éponine’s message in the Facebook chat window.

 

_“R & me going away 4 xmas. C U all in new yr – prezzies left w/ Marius. xoxo_”

 

It really wasn’t informative.

He unlocked his mobile phone and pulled up his contacts list, scrolling down to Grantaire’s number. As with the past four attempts, the dial tone gave way to a chipper recorded message: “Grantaire’s phone – I’ll probably forget to call you back.”

Enjolras could not believe his bad luck – he had started the day completely determined to apologise to his friend, even though it was mostly the other man’s fault for being so melodramatic in the first place, and now it was as if the world was conspiring against him. He was almost at the point of suspecting that Grantaire was doing it on purpose just to annoy him, but he realised that this sounded more than a little paranoid.

Pressing his fingers against his temples, Enjolras screwed his eyes shut against a building headache. Whether it was due to the late-night disturbance of the previous day, or because of the unpleasant mixture of stress and guilt that was churning at the back of his skull, he felt like his head might explode.

_Okay, think properly_ , he told himself. There had to be some way to contact Grantaire. He could phone Éponine, for example.

Enjolras scrolled through his contacts list again, searching for her entry. ‘E’ for Éponine yielded no results. ‘T’ for Thénardier was equally unhelpful. He manually flicked through the entire alphabet.

He didn’t have her number.

_How_ could he not have her number?

Enjolras let out a groan of despair: when he did finally get ahold of Grantaire, he was going to kill him. After apologising. Obviously he’d apologise first; he had _some_ manners, after all.

He tore himself away from a fantasy involving a large meat cleaver in order to re-consider the situation. Combeferre would have Éponine’s number – the man was always texting her about stuff. Except that Combeferre had already gone to work for the day, and would have his phone switched off if he was working with the x-ray machines again. Considering that his current role as a research scientist at the IBCP necessitated interaction with x-ray machines, this was highly likely. Enjolras gave it a try anyway, only to encounter the expected “Hey this is Combeferre. I can’t come to the phone right now so please leave a message after the tone.”

Okay, who else was there? Enjolras took a mental catalogue of his friends. Courfeyrac wouldn’t be awake yet, due to the events of the previous night, and he always switched his phone off before going to bed. Jehan would be at work in the library, and so would similarly have his phone turned off. Feuilly worked the night shift, which meant he’d also be asleep. Of course, he would nevertheless answer his phone if it rang, but Enjolras would feel bad about waking him. Bossuet and Joly were spending the holidays in Italy, with the family of Joly’s girlfriend, Musichetta. Calling any of the three would incur large network charges, so they were also out of the equation. Bahorel had returned to his parents’ house down in Lozère, where he had no cell reception.

He’d have to call Marius. _Great_.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Marius, Enjolras told himself as he scrolled through his contacts once more. It was just that holding a conversation with Marius could often seem like drawing blood from a stone.

Marius picked up after several rings. “Oh hello Enjolras, is everything okay?”

“Hi, can I ask a favour?”

“Sure, go ahead!” The other man sounded annoyingly spirited, but at least he was eager to help.

“Do you have Éponine’s phone number? I need to get ahold of Grantaire, but he’s not picking up, so…”

It almost sounded like… Was Marius _giggling_ on the other end of the line?

“Marius?”

“Yes, sorry, I was just remembering something funny that Éponine said. Yeah, I can give you her number. Wait, no I can’t. I mean, it’s in my contacts but I can’t view them if you’re phoning me, uh–”

Enjolras tried very hard to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “Why don’t we hang up, and then you can text me the number?”

“Oh yeah that’s actually a really good idea. Okay, I’ll–”

Enjolras ended the call before the sentence was over, not feeling in the mood to deal with Marius’ circumlocution, and slouched back against the sofa. His coffee had gone cold, but he finished it anyway; he had a feeling he’d need the caffeine to deal with the rest of the exchange.

After a few minutes, his phone let out the default _ping_! to let him know that he’d received a text.

 

**_Marius:_ ** _I cant view my contacts and write a text at the same time???? :(_

That was the final straw. Marius was definitely going on the ‘to kill’ list, straight after Grantaire.

 

**_Enjolras:_ ** _Why don’t you write the number down on some paper, and then refer to that when you type the text message?_

**_Marius:_ ** _thats also a good idea! :D_

**_Marius:_ ** _wait a sec I cant find a pen :/_

**_Marius:_ ** _OK here it is:_ _06 37 66 46 38 sorry it took me so long XD_

Enjolras copied the number into his contacts list with relief. The relief was tempered slightly by the knowledge that now he had to _actually_ apologise to Grantaire, but – on the plus-side – a conversation with the cynic wouldn’t involve quite so many emoticons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so because i made éponine older to get her to the same-ish age as grantaire, i've also aged-up gavroche and azelma a little. i hope that i'm allowed to do that!!
> 
> combeferre works using x-ray crystallography at l'institut de biologie physico-chimique (http://www.ibpc.fr/frc550.htm). this is completely irrelevant, but i spent a good half-hour reading up on the jobs available for parisian research scientists (because i figured that he's big on medicine, education, and helping people, and so might choose such a career path) and i refuse to let that go to waste
> 
> éponine's mobile number is literally the french area code plus the digits that make 'eponinet' on a keypad


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which olives are eaten and olive branches ignored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that it's short and has required a wait - i've been away, and so didn't have much time to write. but i figured it was better to upload a short chapter now than to leave it even longer before i update!

By the time Azelma put in an appearance, Éponine had bullied the kitchen into a state of relative cleanliness, and Grantaire into preparing lunch. He was just ladling pasta onto some rather chipped dishes when the girl arrived, carrying a pair of stiletto heels, and with smudged makeup that must have been applied the previous day. Everything about her screamed ‘hangover’.

She slumped into the nearest chair at the kitchen table, and regarded the room’s occupants with a confused squint. “What’re you doing here?”

“Baby-sitting,” Éponine replied with a smirk, placing a pint glass of water on the table. “Apparently mum wants to be around her loved ones for the season of giving.”

Azelma snorted. “Bet she’s up to something. Not that I ain’t glad to see you,” she added, reaching for the water. “Thanks.”

“Rough night?” asked Grantaire, grinning over from where he was now sprinkling chopped olives onto the dishes.

“Just a Christmas bash with some friends. You know how it gets.”

“I wish that I didn’t, but alas you are correct,” he said, and then raised his voice: “Gavroche! Grub’s up!”

Wincing at the noise, Azelma grabbed her water and downed it in one. Éponine patted her sister’s hair sympathetically, noticing how scraggly it was. Perhaps she should add some vouchers for a salon to Azelma’s Christmas gift list. Now that she was thinking of it, as Gavroche entered the room, sniffing the air appreciatively, she noticed that his own mane was getting pretty unruly. Her parents were obviously still much the same as ever.

“Smells delish,” Gavroche declared, plonking himself into the seat next to Azelma.

Grantaire bowed theatrically, and then deposited the dishes of pasta before them. “Chef’s speciality,” he said, “best enjoyed with a nice glass of Chianti. Or, lacking that, with whatever this is.” He held up an unlabelled bottle of liquid, the colour of treacle, which radiated alcoholic fumes even with the cap shut. “I found it in the fridge,” he added.

Éponine grimaced. “Yeah, that’ll be dad’s moonshine. Don’t drink it unless you want to go blind.”

He laughed in reply, deftly pouring himself a glass. “Well you can suit yourself, but I’m going to take the chef’s advice on this one.”

Éponine slid the remaining two dishes of pasta into place, and she and Grantaire sat down opposite her siblings.

It was almost like a proper family affair, Éponine thought, with everyone sitting together at the table. She fondly watched the others eating: Gavroche chewing with his mouth open; Azelma separating the mushrooms from the pasta sauce; Grantaire stealing olives from her plate when he thought she wasn’t looking. It was very likely that her parents had some ulterior motives in inviting them over so early, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t nice to be there.

As she ate, Éponine’s phone buzzed once in her pocket, alerting her of a new message. She decided to leave checking it until after lunch: it was too nice a scene to disturb with bad table etiquette.

 

\---

 

It was only later in the afternoon that Éponine remembered the message, when the four of them were sprawled out on the sofa-bed, watching a disturbingly violent movie from Gavroche’s personal collection. She unlocked her phone, glancing down to see who it was. The number was unrecognised, which was a little odd – who would be texting her if not one of her contacts? She opened the message with a frown.

 

**_Unknown:_ ** _Hi it’s Enjolras. Is this Éponine’s number?_

Okay, that was not what she’d expected. She added him to her contacts list anyway, and then typed a quick reply.

 

**_Éponine:_ ** _yes how did u get my number??_

**_Éponine:_ ** _not that u cant hav it im just confused is all_

There was no immediate response, so Éponine shrugged and returned the phone to her pocket. She’d have thought that something important had cropped up, for Enjolras to be mysteriously texting her, but obviously it wasn’t urgent. Maybe he’d just realised that she wasn’t in his address book, and had asked Combeferre for her contact details. She didn’t have a problem with him knowing her number, of course; it was just that he’d never asked for it.

After several car-chases and a fantastic explosion, her phone buzzed again.

 

**_Enj:_ ** _I asked Marius for it – I hope that’s okay._

**_Éponine:_ ** _of course it is. did u want something in particular?_

**_Enj:_ ** _Is Grantaire with you?_

She crooked an eyebrow at the message, unsure where the conversation was headed.

 

**_Éponine:_ ** _yes. y?_

**_Enj:_ ** _Courfeyrac and Prouvaire have indicated to me that I may have upset him. Is this true?_

Éponine wasn’t quite sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry at the question.

 

**_Éponine:_ ** _wtf how did u not get that. yes its true y do u think he hasnt come 2 any meetings??_

She found herself waiting through a bloody shoot-out and a disconcerting amount of nudity before Enjolras texted her again.

 

**_Enj:_ ** _Oh. Well, in that case, I’d like to apologise to him._

**_Éponine:_ ** _yes that would b good u should do that_

Éponine couldn’t help but smile to herself – Grantaire would be overjoyed to receive an apology. Maybe this would finally end their petty feud, and have the group of friends returned to their usual pattern in the new year. She only hoped that Enjolras could say sorry without starting another argument.

“Who you been texting, Ép?” Gavroche’s voice cut into her thoughts. “You’re missing the best bit of the film. Look: that dog’s about to eat the guy’s legs.”

Grantaire propped himself up from where he’d been flopped across Éponine’s legs to squint at Gavroche. “What age rating did you say this was again, Gav?”

The adolescent grinned at him deviously, but was not deterred from his original line of questioning. “Seriously – who’s more interesting than extreme violence?”

“Probably that freckly bloke,” said Azelma, nudging Gavroche. “Or four-eyes.” She and Gavroche had nicknamed all of Éponine’s friends based on their Facebook profile pictures. On discovering that most of these friends were male and reasonably attractive, Éponine’s siblings had taken it upon themselves to needle her about them at every possible opportunity.

Sighing, Éponine shook her head. “No, actually it’s ‘blondie’.”

“What, Enjolras?” asked Grantaire, sitting up with an expression of confusion.

Her phone buzzed again, and she nodded an affirmation as she unlocked it to check the message.

 

**_Enj:_ ** _May I phone you, so that you can hand me over to Grantaire?_

“What the hell does he want?” Grantaire muttered, crawling up the mattress so that he could lean over to read her phone screen.

“I guess he wants to talk to you,” she said, tilting the phone so that he could see the message.

Grantaire stared at it for a few moments, his face unreadable. Éponine waited for him to say something. He didn’t.

“So, shall I tell him to ring?” she finally prompted.

Slowly, Grantaire shook his head, eyebrows settling into a sullen line. “What more can he have to say to me? He made it perfectly clear that he didn’t want me around, and I don’t want him to force himself to talk to me out of pity or guilt or whatever. No; I don’t want to speak to him.”

“That’s a fucking lie!” Éponine objected. “You can’t tell me that you don’t want to speak to him when you’ve spent weeks moping around over not seeing him. You forget that I know you pretty goddamn well – and, in this case, I know that you want nothing more than to speak to him.”

In the background, Éponine noticed Gavroche pausing the film so that he and Azelma could slink from the room. She reminded herself how much they disliked raised voices, after years of living with her parents’ shouting-matches, and strove to keep her voice down. “So swallow your pride and accept the phone call.”

Grantaire pouted stubbornly. “Okay fine so I miss him – of course I do – but that doesn’t mean I want him to feel obligated to be nice just because he feels bad. Everything he said was true, after all. It’s probably better for us both if I just stay away.”

“R, he wants to apologise to you. Have you ever once seen Enjolras apologise? I’m pretty sure he doesn’t do it unless he means it.”

He fixed her with an incredulous stare. “I’m pretty sure he’s only doing it because someone told him to. I bet it was Ferre. Or Courf.”

Éponine shifted, remembering Enjolras’ message about Courfeyrac and Jehan. “Well, maybe it had to be suggested to him but–”

“Exactly,” Grantaire interrupted, with a wry smile. “He was put up to it. So just tell him that I don’t want to talk, and then he’ll be off the hook, and we can all live happily ever after.”

Éponine hesitated, but when Grantaire held her gaze she huffed out a breath, unlocking her phone to send the requested message.

 

**_Éponine:_ ** _he doesnt want 2 talk 2 u. mayb try again another time. idk_

**_Enj:_ ** _Oh. Well, I guess I’ll leave him alone then. Sorry to disturb you. Have a nice Christmas._

Grantaire snorted. “See?” he said, unfolding himself from the cramped position on the sofa-bed to stand. “He doesn’t really want to talk. Anyway, I’m going to go buy some cigarettes. Maybe something for dinner, too – your mum doesn’t have a very well-stocked kitchen. You want anything?”

She shook her head wordlessly, not meeting his eyes.

“Oh don’t get pissy with me, Ép. You know I’m right.” He paused for a moment, as if about to say something more, but then shrugged and sauntered out the door. Éponine watched him go, absently toying with her phone. This was already looking like it would be a shitty Christmas, and her parents weren’t even home yet.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which neither Éponine nor Enjolras enjoy their family Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's slightly longer than normal to make up for the short one last time. i can't believe how long this fic's getting and i'm not even half-way through my plan yet (cries) this was not what i intended it to be. well, it seems that at least some people are enjoying it? shout out to you people. thank you; you're great

Although still concerned for Grantaire, Éponine soon found that she had more pressing things about which to worry.

Thing Number One was the scene that greeted her on the morning of Christmas Eve, when she returned from a walk in the park with Azelma. Her parents were sat at the kitchen table, a platter of pancakes before them, alongside the very uncomfortable-looking Grantaire and Gavroche. It was like something out of a ‘50s commercial for gravy, and it immediately set alarm bells ringing in Éponine’s head.

Her mother proffered the platter invitingly. Her father smiled like a shark who had just found dinner.

“Sit down here, Ép,” he commanded. “You too, Azzie: we’ve got family business to conduct.”

Azelma lowered herself into the chair next to Éponine, a pained expression on her face. She had always been the most obedient of the siblings when it came to following their father’s grand plans, but even she didn’t seem keen on the idea of ‘family business’ on Christmas Eve.

“Your mother and me was ruminating,” he began, “and it come to our attention that we’ve been doing the same old routine every Christmas. Frankly, I am fed up with us sitting down for _Le Réveillon_ time after time.” He took a moment to steeple his hands, as politicians often did on TV. “There are only so many years for which a man can tolerate all sitting around a table at midnight to nosh on your mother’s cooking. What’s more, them geese and turkeys are expensive items of cuisine, and it seems a waste to be spending so much of our hard-won earnings on them. So we’ve decided that this year we’re going to celebrate in a less traditional manner. How does that sound?” Here, he paused, casting around the gathering for agreement.

Éponine shrugged noncommittally, cautious of where the conversation was heading. Azelma murmured something that sounded concurrent, and Gavroche gave a slight nod of his head. Grantaire looked unsure of his level of involvement, until Mme Thénardier fixed him with a questioning gaze. He glanced at Éponine for support, and then said, “Uh, sure.”

Thing Number Two came a little later in the day, with the arrival of her father’s ‘business partners’: Babet, wearing his signature aviator shades in spite of the overcast sky; Claquesous in a balaclava (because “it’s awful cold out”); Gueulemer carrying a golf bag that clanked metallically when set down on the sideboard; and Montparnasse. None of these men made Éponine less anxious of her father’s plans for the evening.

Mme Thénardier insisted that the men had been invited because they were practically family, but nobody was fooled. It was becoming increasingly evident that a ‘less traditional’ Christmas would involve some kind of criminal activity.

That evening, at around five o’clock, M Thénardier saw fit to brief everyone on the plan. The kitchen was barely large enough to fit the entire assortment, and Éponine found herself in unwelcome proximity to Montparnasse. She wasn’t normally the type to be paranoid, but the way his hand kept accidentally brushing against her thigh was certainly making her jumpy. The slight smirk on his face every time she flinched away was also disconcerting.

“Christmas Eve,” M Thénardier began, looking positively overjoyed to command such a large audience, “as we all know is normally spent indoors with the family. After midnight mass, absolutely everyone will be sat down to chow on their festive banquets. Thing is, it seems a waste to spend such a lovely night indoors, when instead we could be taking a nice, healthy night-time stroll. In fact, the streets will be literally deserted, so we can saunter in privacy and peace. And if we’re going for a nice walk, well, it seems a shame to walk through the shitty areas, doesn’t it? Seems much better if we take our amble through a nicer part of town.

“Of course, not everyone will be at home for _Le Réveillon_ , ‘specially not the elite. No, the upper crust will be in them fancy restaurants, where they can buy the feast ready-made from some haute chef.”

“So what,” Éponine interrupted impatiently, “we’re going to spend our Christmas Eve breaking into rich people’s houses?”

“Think of us as Robin Hood and the band of merry men,” Montparnasse muttered, far too close to her ear. “You can be Maid Marian.”

She swatted him away with a scowl. “If you’re fantasising about me being a cartoon fox then I think you have a problem,” she snapped. He chuckled, but thankfully shifted slightly further from her.

Her mother was speaking now, going through the order of business. They weren’t to take anything large, but the houses which they were targeting should have plenty of cash and jewellery lying around. They’d work in pairs or groups of three, taking one house each, and would reconvene in the kitchen after checking they hadn’t been followed. Gavroche would stay at home – and, no, she didn’t give a damn if he wanted to join in, because they would need him back at base if any trouble was started.

“It’s the season of giving,” finished Mme Thénardier gleefully, “and, by god, will we be given our fair share this year!”

 

\---

 

For some reason, Enjolras always found it irrationally difficult to focus on a task when away from his usual ‘study areas’. In the apartment he shared with Combeferre, or in the Musain, or at Courfeyrac’s house, he was able to read a novel at lightning speed; here, he had been stuck on the same chapter for half an hour.

Giving up on the book (it was one of Balzac’s – he’d taken a recent interest in Paris around the time of the July Monarchy, although he couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason for its remarkable allure), he threw it down.

As with every year, Enjolras had agreed to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day at his parents’ house, mainly because he still relied heavily on their financial support. Consequently, he was now sat at the desk of his childhood bedroom, thoroughly bored.   _This is what I get for working so many non-profit jobs_.

In replacement of the novel, Enjolras opened his laptop. What he most definitely did _not_ do was glance at the bottom draw of his desk, to which his phone had been banished since that morning, because he was not thinking about Grantaire or his phone or Éponine or Grantaire.

Okay, maybe he was thinking about Grantaire a little, but it wasn’t like he was obsessing over how guilty he felt, how much he wanted to apologise, how ridiculously offended he was by the man ignoring him…

The start-up noise of the laptop jolted Enjolras out of his brooding.

There was no point in him worrying about it. If Grantaire didn’t want to speak to him, then that was his prerogative, and there was nothing that Enjolras could do. Disturbing his Christmas celebrations would definitely not be a good idea, and so Enjolras was not going to bother Éponine with any more texts for the next couple of days. Soon enough, Grantaire would be back at his apartment, and then Enjolras could corner him so that they could talk face-to-face. It would be _fine_.

His fingers twitched in the direction of the drawer. Surely one text couldn’t hurt?

Enjolras was just trying to assess how mad Éponine would be if he called her – very mad, in all likelihood – when there was a chipper knock on his door. This was followed almost immediately by his mother easing it open and peering into his room, without his having said anything. The concept of privacy was still beyond her grasp, apparently.

“Dad and I are going to head out now, sweetie,” she said, pushing the door further open. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

“As I already explained,” he replied, striving to sound firm but non-confrontational, “I object to the practices of organised religion, and think that it would be rather hypocritical of me to support it.”

His mother smiled at him fondly. “You always were a stubborn little thing, weren’t you? Even if you don’t want to come to midnight mass, you can still meet us afterwards for _Le Réveillon_. I know grandma would be thrilled to see you there, dear.”

Enjolras shook his head pointedly. “No she wouldn’t – don’t you remember last Christmas? I’ll just stay here and wait for you two to get back. It will be fine, okay? I am a fully grown man and I can be left alone in the house without the world ending. Stop fussing.”

She laughed gently, crossing the room to ruffle his hair – a gesture which he had detested his entire life – and then planted a kiss on his cheek. “Okay then, I’ll leave you alone. I just feel bad about abandoning you on Christmas: I don’t want you to be left out. Maybe they’ll let me bring back some leftovers for you, though – would you like that? Oh, and don’t worry about staying up for us, dear. Just make sure you leave the door unchained, so we can get back in.”

“Yes, yes, okay,” he agreed, hoping that affirmations might end the conversation more quickly than trying to remind her that he was a vegan, and so couldn’t eat most of the food.

She pulled him into an unwanted hug, and then finally exited the room. “I love you, darling,” she called behind her as she left.

“Love you too,” Enjolras muttered begrudgingly. It was true, of course, he _did_ love his family. His father was rather insufferable in his affluence, but he was still his father, and his mother seemed determined to treat him as a small child forever, but she was still his mother. No, the problem was not that he didn’t love his family – it was more that he didn’t _like_ them.

Sighing, he closed his laptop again, retrieved his book, and resumed his not-reading.

 

\---

 

Grantaire found himself partnered with Azelma for the night’s excursion. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with taking such a direct involvement in the Thénardiers’ criminal activities (acting as getaway driver somehow seemed meeker than actual thievery), but he could at least watch out for Azelma, and he’d drunk enough moonshine that his already-weak moral compass was quashed.

The pair were deposited from Claquesous’ beat-up Peugeot into _l’Arrondissement de Passy_ at 11:30PM, precisely. Using Azelma’s GPS on her cell phone, they were quickly able to locate their target street, and target house. It was a beautiful building: terraced; nestled into a row of looming sandstone façades; decorative cast-iron railings at every window; elegant stone carvings highlighting the jetty of the third floor: even the drainpipes were a work of art. Grantaire let out a low whistle, before remembering that they were aiming for stealth.  

Theirs was the only house on the street without a single light showing in any of the six storeys. Grantaire wondered what kind of idiots would so blatantly advertise that their house was unoccupied. Then again, perhaps when you’re disgustingly wealthy you simply don’t give a shit about security. Why worry about someone breaking into your house if you have several of them?

Azelma ushered him into the paltry shade of the arched doorway. Thankfully, there were few streetlights nearby – so as not to disturb the historic aesthetic, Grantaire suspected – and it was an overcast night. In their dark clothing, the pair would have been difficult to spot even if one were looking for them.

The girl pulled some tools from her back pocket, licking her lips in concentration. On a whim, Grantaire stuck out a gloved hand to stop her, and tried the handle. It turned smoothly, and the door opened to his touch. “Too complacent to even lock the fucking place,” he muttered disgustedly.

“They’re just begging to get rolled,” Azelma whispered back.

She took the lead, stepping cautiously across the threshold and into the gloom. Grantaire followed, pausing just inside to allow his eyes to adjust. He shut the door noiselessly behind him, and then they both visibly relaxed.

Azelma let out a breathless laugh. “Would you look at all this shit,” she hissed, peering excitedly into the rooms leading off from the main hallway. “They must be loaded!”

Grantaire made his way into the first room – a living room, with a trio of elegant Duncan Phyfe settees placed in a horseshoe, a low oak coffee table, and a television that was larger than Azelma – and began rifling through a glass-panelled dresser that rested against one wall. He was successful almost straight away, finding a pot labelled ‘small change’ in tasteful script. The owner’s idea of small change was rather different to Grantaire’s, and he was soon shoving fifty-euro notes into his borrowed utility belt.

From the room at the end of the hall, which was the kitchen, Azelma emitted a gleeful whoop. “R, come see this!”

Grantaire obediently moved to join her, finding the girl at an open cutlery drawer. “It’s sterling silver,” she told him excitedly. “Do you think it will all fit in my backpack?”

He shook his head, removing a teaspoon for inspection. “Let’s just take a few of each,” he replied. “That way they’re less likely to notice they’ve had visitors. Besides, we haven’t even looked upstairs yet.”

The pair flitted from room to room, searching concisely, and moving quickly up the storeys. On the third floor they discovered the master bedroom. _Bingo_.

“It’s bigger than our entire apartment,” Grantaire breathed, a hint of bitterness escaping in his words.

Azelma giggled, tip-toeing immediately to the walk-in wardrobe. Grantaire went for the bedside cabinets, which looked extremely promising. A small trinket box relinquished a delightful array of necklaces, bracelets, brooches, and ear-rings. He zipped them safely into the utility belt, and then turned back to inspect the other objects atop the cabinet.

Several photo frames were carefully arranged along the far edge, although it was too dark to make out the subjects they enclosed. He was unable to recall any family photographs in the lower storeys of the house – only framed paintings, which were probably originals – and wondered why. Curious as to the type of people who would live in such a house, he picked one up and held it to the sparse light cast through the window.

There were three people in the photo: a man, looking stern and slightly overweight; a smiling woman whose hairdo would have cost Éponine an entire month’s salary; and between them a boy, maybe fifteen years old. The boy looked less than thrilled to be posing for a family portrait, and he was hunched away from where his mother rested a hand on his shoulder. There was something in the photographed scowl that was almost familiar to Grantaire, but he couldn’t seem to place it – not in the darkness, in any case.

“How many shoes does this bitch need?” Azelma crowed from the walk-in wardrobe. Grantaire turned to see her holding up a pair of high heels. “Louis Vuitton,” she said, as if that meant anything to him. “I always wanted a pair. Look they’re even my size. Do you think I could…?”

Without waiting for his response, she was slipping off her ankle boots and working her feet into the revered heels. Grantaire had to admit that they were lovely, as shoes go.

_Crash!_

The noise came from upstairs. Both burglars froze instantly, trying not to breathe. Another sound – the unmistakable clatter of feet on stairs – followed soon afterwards. Azelma’s eyes had grown as wide as saucers, staring wildly at Grantaire as if begging him to come up with a plan. He motioned for her to stay still. Maybe whoever it was hadn’t heard them, and just happened to be walking downstairs to fetch a glass of water. Hell, maybe it was Santa.

The floorboards outside the bedroom door creaked.

Grantaire vowed never to spend Christmas with the Thénardiers again, removing a flick-knife from the sleeve of his jacket. He’d really hoped, when Claquesous had handed it to him, that he wouldn’t have to use it. Obviously there are dreams that cannot be.

 

\---

 

Enjolras had finally managed to engross himself in his reading, using his tiny desktop lamp to illuminate the text. This way, when his parents came home they wouldn’t see the light, and would think he was asleep. It was a little petty, but he’d been using the same trick ever since he was a kid.

He was just getting to a good bit, where thieves were slinking around in the dead of night, when there was a noise from downstairs. He placed the book down, straining his ears to hear. Were his parents home already? After a few minutes, which passed silently, he concluded that he must have imagined it. _Perhaps I shouldn’t read this kind of material when I’m alone at night_.

Then: another noise, followed by a faint murmur of voices. It didn’t sound like his parents.

Enjolras crossed his bedroom as quietly as possible, opening his wardrobe. At the back was his old cricket bat – he hadn’t played in years, but he was very glad now that he’d kept it. The weight was reassuring in his hands, and he exited his bedroom with it held out before him.

His door swung shut behind him, creating a thunderous noise. Enjolras flinched.

The time for furtiveness had passed, and so he descended the staircase quickly without worrying about who might hear. On the floor below, he noticed that several doors were open, when he knew that his parents always left them shut. There was definitely someone in the house.

The only door still closed led to his parents’ bedroom. The intruder had to be in there.

Taking a steadying breath, Enjolras prodded the door open with the cricket bat.

Two figures stared back at him, almost indiscernible in the blackness. The closer one was definitely male: a little shorter than Enjolras, but with broader shoulders that didn’t bode well if a fight broke out. A flash in his left hand suggested a knife. The second figure was smaller and slighter – probably female – but was already in a defensive stance that spoke of years of experience. Enjolras hefted the cricket bat, willing it to be deterrent enough.

“Look mate,” said the man, “We don’t want to hurt you.”

Enjolras frowned. That voice… didn’t he know it? And the figure’s posture, the roll of his shoulders, the silhouette-outline of tousled hair – all of this belonged to…

“G- Grantaire?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all my knowledge of french christmas traditions comes from my french classes at school, so i apologise for all inaccuracies. that said, my teachers have almost always been french nationals so hopefully the impression with which they've left me isn't too far out
> 
> for anyone interested, here's a brief summary of some of the traditions, if we are willing to trust about.com articles: http://french.about.com/cs/culture/a/christmas.htm
> 
> according to wikipedia, l'arrondissement de passy contains some of the most expensive real-estate in france. it also contains the avenue victor hugo. also, it has many very pretty houses. these are the reasons for which i have chosen it. seriously, have a look around the area google maps, it's really nice  
> https://maps.google.com/maps?q=avenue+victor+hugo,+16th+arrondissement+of+Paris,+Paris,+France&hl=en&ie=UTF8&ll=48.868812,2.283311&spn=0.000252,0.00066&sll=48.865248,2.274919&sspn=0.000252,0.00066&t=h&hnear=Avenue+Victor+Hugo,+Paris,+%C3%8Ele-de-France,+France&z=21&layer=c&cbll=48.868812,2.283311&panoid=JIf8xXkZUkENu4WxCbWadA&cbp=12,357.42,,0,0
> 
> after writing this chapter, my google search history looks very much like i'm a millionaire looking to buy and furnish a nice town house in paris


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which words are finally had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for a little bit of violence, i guess? i mean it's pretty tame but i thought i'd mention it just in case

Although a large amount of Éponine’s relationship with Montparnasse had consisted of lurking in dark street corners at unholy hours, _most_ of the time it had not been with the goal of armed robbery. She reflected sullenly on the unhappy turn of events, as Montparnasse transferred various weapons from his handbag (which he insisted was not a handbag, but a “man’s bag”) into the interior pockets of his outfit.

“Like old times, right?” he smirked.

“Whatever. Just get your GPS up and find the damn house; I’m freezing my tits off out here.”

“I _would_ do the gentlemanly thing and offer you my coat, but it’s hardly worth it for B-cups,” he replied, patting his sides one final time to check that everything was concealed. Satisfied with his appearance, he pulled a phone from the back pocket of his jeans. “Right, GPS. Looks like it’s two streets over.”

Éponine scowled, pulling her bomber jacket tighter around herself. “Let’s get this over with.”

Not waiting for his response, she marched resolutely down the street.

He caught up with her easily – _damn his stupid long legs_ – and fell into step beside her. “Anyone would think you’re not enjoying my company,” he reprimanded, eyes flickering to watch her in a side-long glance. She continued to stare ahead, face set in an unwelcoming expression; there was no way that they were getting into this now, of all times.

Halfway down the street, Éponine squeezed into an unlit alleyway that should lead to their desired address, if Google Maps was to be trusted. As the duo moved down the passage, the light spilling through the gap at other end was broken by another figure, turning the corner. Although it was hard to tell their identity from just a silhouette, Éponine could make out a stooped posture that suggested old age, and a shimmer in the half-light that might have been jewellery around a neck.

Montparnasse pulled her back to press against the wall, so that the two of them would remain un-noticed a while longer. It was better if there were no witnesses around to place them at the scene of the crime.

The person moved slowly towards them through the alleyway, feet shuffling along the cobbles. Éponine held her breath, hoping that an encounter could somehow be avoided. However, the silhouette continued to approach, and – as it drew nearer – began to consolidate itself into the frame of an old woman, carrying an expensive shoulder-bag and wearing enough bracelets to jangle prettily as she moved.

“Some rich old bird,” Montparnasse breathed in her ear. “Let’s lick her.”

“No!” Éponine hissed indignantly. “We are _not_ mugging an old woman on Christmas.”

“It’s not midnight yet,” he pointed out, hand dipping into his coat to select a weapon. “Still got time before it’s Christmas.”

“I’m not doing it, ‘Parnasse.”

Montparnasse eyed her, jaw jutting out slightly as he took in her determined expression. Something twitched dangerously below his left eye.

“Fine. Fuck you, then. I’ll do it solo.” A kitchen knife appeared in his hand, angled downwards so as not to catch the light.

“Don’t you dare,” Éponine whispered, moving outwards minutely, as if to block his path.

“Stop being a little bitch and get out of my way.”

She watched his face for a moment, seeing the tell-tale rise of colour in his cheeks that meant he was about to lose his temper. Resigning herself to the inevitable bruises she would receive, Éponine took a deep breath and hollered, directly in Montparnasse’s face.

“Run, lady! This guy’s got a knife – run!”

“You fucking–” Montparnasse started, insult cut off as she shoved him backwards.

The woman, now a few feet away, let out a startled cry, but from the sounds of it only took a couple of steps back.

Éponine dodged away from where Montparnasse was already swinging an arm towards her head. “Clear out!” she reiterated.

Thankfully, the woman obeyed this time, and her footsteps pattered away with remarkable speed. Éponine was too busy weaving around Montparnasse’s attacks to look back and check. For once, she was grateful to have plenty of experience in street fighting.

A glint of cold steel flashed dangerously close to her face as he swung – the bastard was actually using his _knife_ on her – and she made use of the momentum of his arc by ramming an elbow into his briefly-exposed upper back. He staggered into the wall of the alleyway, but immediately pushed off from it and barrelled into her side, knocking her over.

Éponine landed on the cobblestones in a messy crouch, one arm thrust backwards to keep her balance. Her wrist made a nasty crunching noise as it absorbed her weight, but she didn’t have time to dwell on the sharp pain that was sent shooting up to her elbow.

Montparnasse was advancing again, right arm drawn back, knife clasped tightly in his fist, ready to slash at her. Springing from the ground, she surged upwards to head-butt his undefended midriff. The man let out a satisfying _oof_ , and automatically brought his arms down to defend his stomach.

Taking her chance, Éponine brought a knee to connect forcefully with his crotch.

He let out a strangled cry, and slumped to the floor. She didn’t wait around to gloat; there would be severe retribution – not only for herself, but probably for Grantaire and her siblings – once Montparnasse was together enough to contact her father.

Éponine dashed away, pulling out her phone as she ran.

When she felt herself to be at a relatively safe distance, she darted into the shadow of a doorway to catch her breath. After a few seconds, she sank down onto front step.

What was she going to do? She wasn’t fully sure where she was, she had no money on her, no mode of transport home, and a potentially homicidal ex-boyfriend who would surely be looking for her by now. Moreover, her wrist was smarting fiercely, and she thought that Montparnasse might have cracked one of her ribs when he smashed into her.

Breathing shakily, she dialled the only number she could think to dial.

Surprisingly, Marius picked up.

 

\---

 

“… Enjolras?”

The man in the doorway lowered his cricket bat, and reached for the wall. A moment later, the room was bathed in sharp, white light.

Grantaire, suddenly blinded, dropped his knife like a complete amateur and covered his eyes with a cry of protestation. Behind him, it sounded like Azelma had fallen over in surprise – or possibly because she’d forgotten about the ridiculously tall heels on her feet.

“Sorry,” muttered Enjolras.

Rubbing at his eyelids, Grantaire risked another peek at the room. When the light caused him no instant pain, he opened his eyes fully to look at the dishevelled-but-still-remarkably-good-looking blonde. Grantaire’s brain could find no reason for the man’s being there, and yet it was definitely Enjolras. Enjolras in only boxers and a t-shirt. Enjolras wielding a cricket bat. Grantaire couldn’t help thinking that this was scarily like the set-up to a bad porno.

After a while, he realised that he was gawping, and cleared his throat quickly to hide it. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“It’s my house,” Enjolras replied, frowning. “Well, my parents’ house.” His blue gaze shifted from Grantaire’s face to Azelma, who was scrambling upright, and then down to the knife on the floor. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Uh… would you believe me if I said that this isn’t what it looks like?”

Enjolras tried to fold his arms, and then seemed to notice that he was still holding the cricket bat. He propped it against the doorframe. “It looks like you’re stealing my mother’s jewellery. And possibly her shoes.”

“Okay, I guess it’s actually exactly what it looks like,” Grantaire admitted. He tried a sheepish grin.

It appeared that the other man was at a remarkable loss for words.

There were a few awkward moments of staring, and the silence was broken by Azelma. “You guys… know each other?”

Enjolras nodded mutely. Grantaire decided that he should at least attempt an introduction.

“Azelma,” he said, pretending that he was acquainting two friends at a polite dinner party, rather than his co-criminal and his crush in the middle of a robbery, “meet my friend Enjolras, aka ‘blondie’. Enjolras, meet Éponine’s sister, Azelma.”

“Friend?” asked Enjolras, both eyebrows rising.

Grantaire froze. Somehow it had slipped his mind, following the surprise, that he was no longer amicable with the other man. Judging by Enjolras’ expression, it had been the wrong choice of word.

“Sorry,” he amended. “Acquaintance.”

This also seemed to be incorrect, as Enjolras’ features quickly fell into something more solemn. He almost looked disappointed, but Grantaire couldn’t think why that would be the case.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Azelma leapt in, before he could paint himself any further into the corner. He thanked her silently as she offered her hand to Enjolras, insisting that the other man shook it.

After another pause of silence, Enjolras’ focus returned again to the knife on the floor. “Should I be calling the police?” he asked.

Grantaire sighed. “Probably, but it would be nice if you didn’t. We’ll put all your stuff back.”

“Yes… Look, why _are_ you stealing my stuff?” Enjolras stepped across the room to perch on the edge of his parents’ bed, gesturing to Grantaire and Azelma that they could sit, too. “I know that you and Éponine aren’t rich, but I was under the impression that you could meet the cost of living, between your jobs. Did something happen?”

Grantaire gingerly sat on the bed, leaving about a metre between himself and Enjolras for politeness’ sake. Also, he wasn’t sure that he trusted his hands to behave with the blonde in such close proximity – especially after weeks without seeing him. It was all rather overwhelming, and – Grantaire realised – to top it all off, he didn’t actually have an adequate excuse for his criminal involvement.

“It’s hard to explain,” he muttered, evading eye-contact. “But no: it’s nothing like that.”

Enjolras inhaled sharply, as if he’d had an unpleasant realisation, and shimmied closer to Grantaire. He leant in, voice suddenly low and urgent. “Has someone put you two up to this? Are you in trouble?”

Azelma let out a small laugh from the other side of Grantaire, where she had slouched on the bed. “Getting warmer, blondie, but not quite right.”

Unable to look away any longer, Grantaire brought his gaze up to meet Enjolras’, who was now much too close for comfort. The man’s blue eyes were wide, and he looked genuinely concerned. _Interesting_.

“It’s more of a favour,” Grantaire admitted at last. “We’re just helping out Azzie’s dad, is all. This is his kind of thing.”

“Wait, are you saying that this is a frequent occurrence?”

Grantaire wondered whether he should lie, but faced with that burning stare… “Sort of. I don’t normally help with this heavy a job, but I’ve done getaway driving a few times. That kind of thing.”

“ _Why?_ ”

Azelma snorted at the question. “What’re you gonna ask next: why’s the sky blue? It’s not fucking rocket science. I thought you said this guy’s a genius, R.”

Scowling, Grantaire kicked her ankle. The last thing he needed right now was for Enjolras to discover how much Grantaire spoke about him when he wasn’t around.

Enjolras ignored Azelma, watching Grantaire for an answer.

In the end, Grantaire flashed him with a lopsided grin. “Why not?”

 

\---

 

When they divorced, the judge had granted Combeferre’s parents with joint custody of himself and his two younger siblings. This had worked well when both his mother and his father lived in Lyon, as their time with the children could be shared equally with relative ease. However, when his mother’s work called her to Paris, the bifurcated family had been faced with the decision: who would go with whom?

Combeferre had been seventeen at the time. His siblings were both younger than him, and removing them from their accustomed surroundings would have wreaked havoc on their education. Furthermore, his father was considerably more financially stable than his mother, and actually owned a house, whereas she would only be renting a small apartment in Paris. Consequently, it was decided that they should stay in Lyon with him.

At seventeen, Combeferre was already the astute and compassionate individual that would later befriend _Les Amis_ , and so he had insisted on going with his mother. He wasn’t going to allow her to be lonely – not if he could help to prevent it.

Since then, Combeferre had spent every Christmas in Paris with her, and his siblings remained in Lyon with their father. Perhaps it wasn’t fair on every family member, but that’s just how the proverbial cookie crumbles.

When Combeferre was twenty-one, and the group that would become _Les Amis_ had begun to form, he met Feuilly. If Combeferre had ever felt bad about his own familial situation, it was nothing compared to Feuilly’s. The other man had been orphaned at a young age, and had been shunted around the foster system until he was of age. After that, he tirelessly worked multiple part-time jobs for his living, and still managed somehow to be cheery and friendly.

They had only been friends for three months when Feuilly had mentioned, one December afternoon, that he normally spent Christmas alone. To Combeferre’s mind, the only suitable response was to invite Feuilly to spend Christmas with himself and his mother. By now, years later, the man’s attendance was taken as a given. In similar fashion, when Combeferre discovered that, this year, Marius was no longer on speaking terms with his grandfather, it was immediately decided that he should join them.

This was how Combeferre came to be interrupted, in the middle of removing a chestnut-stuffed turkey from the oven, when an over-excited Marius burst into the kitchen.

“‘Ferre, I need your help!”

“Didn’t we ban you from kitchens after Joly’s last dinner-party?” he teased, but stopped short when he saw the panicked expression on his friend’s face. “Whoa, okay, what’s happened?”

“‘Ponine just called me – she needs picking up. She’s in trouble!”

That was enough to incite Combeferre to action. He grabbed his car keys and phone from the pot on the side-board, and was grabbing Marius by the arm and marching for the door before the other man had had a chance to explain further.

“Mum, Feuilly, can you see to the food?” he called out as they left. By the time Feuilly was shouting a question back to him, he had already dragged Marius half-way down the stair-well.

 

\---

 

Over the past week, when Enjolras had been preparing his apology, he had tried obsessively to ready himself for every possible version of the conversation. He had looked at Wikihow articles; he had consulted Jehan; he’d even made Combeferre role-play with him. And yet, no matter how many situations the man had imagined, not a single one came close to the reality. The reality, as it turned out, was that Enjolras had to find a way to bring it up whilst the pair of them cleaned up his parents’ bedroom, which only needed doing because Grantaire had broken into his house and tried to _rob_ him. With a knife. Enjolras also hadn’t counted on the presence of a teenage girl who kept _smirking_ at him, as if she knew something that he didn’t.

The only positive thing that Enjolras could say so far was that he hadn’t lost his temper with Grantaire’s vague, insincere answers. Yet.

_How does one begin this kind of discourse?_ he asked himself, as he tried to match his mother’s shoe collection back into pairs. He couldn’t exactly just say ‘hey Grantaire I’m sorry’, could he? _Could_ he?

What’s more, he had no idea where he stood with Grantaire. The man had refused to speak to him for over a month, and then introduced Enjolras as his ‘friend’ without any hesitation. Enjolras had been so relieved to be labelled as such – if confused – but then, when he had pointed this out, he’d been hurriedly downgraded to ‘acquaintance’.  It had actually stung, to hear that.

Plus, he was in his boxers. Enjolras didn’t know why, but something about Grantaire seeing him in his boxers suddenly made him feel very self-conscious.

He was trying to work up the nerve to call Grantaire aside when a tinny Ke$ha song began to play. It must have been Azelma’s ringtone, because the girl responded by retrieving a phone from her hoodie’s pocket.

She checked the caller ID, and then excused herself from the room.

Enjolras was alone with Grantaire.

The two men continued to tidy in tense silence. Enjolras could almost kick himself for the minutes of golden opportunity that he was letting slip by, but he couldn’t seem to find the breath to speak.

“Look,” said Grantaire, making Enjolras jump a little. “I appreciate what you’ve been trying to do, but it’s really not necessary. I get that I’m a jerk and that you don’t want me around, and I can deal just fine with you not liking me. You don’t have to pretend to want reconciliation just because you feel sorry for me. And if the others are giving you shit about it then let me know and I’ll tell them to back off.”

Enjolras frowned, turning from the pile of shoes that he had acquired to face Grantaire. The dark-haired man was sat on the bed, fiddling with a tangled necklace, and talking at the wall above Enjolras’ head. He wore a mask of determination that was laced with melancholy.

“You… you think that I’m pretending to want to apologise?” Enjolras asked, bemusedly.

“It’s okay; you don’t have to lie for my benefit.”

Straightening up, Enjolras crossed the room to stand before Grantaire, so that the other man had to look into his face. “Grantaire, I swear that I am genuinely sorry. I was completely out of line, okay? Just because I was angry about that failure of a rally, I let myself take my frustration out on you and I said things that were untrue and that I sincerely regret. My reaction was absolutely not a reflection of the way that I feel about you; it wasn’t your fault at all.”

Grantaire quirked an eyebrow.

“Okay: it _was_ partly your fault. You were being deliberately confrontational. But, even so, I had no right to speak to you in that way, and wish that I hadn’t.”

“It was all true, though,” muttered Grantaire, eyes flitting between Enjolras’ face and the spot over his shoulder. “What you said – it wasn’t a lie.”

He sounded so dejected that Enjolras wanted to slap his past-self in the face for what he had said. In the absence of a convenient mode of time travel, Enjolras settled for placing a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, in what he hoped was a comforting manner. Grantaire didn’t flinch away, which was a good sign.

“What I said was the polar opposite of the truth. Of course you’re one of _Les Amis_ , even if you don’t share our beliefs – in fact, _because_ you don’t share our beliefs, but still stick around. The meetings aren’t the same without you. It turns out that making speeches isn’t nearly as fun when there’s nobody with whom to argue. Everyone misses you.” He paused for a moment. “ _I_ miss you.”

Grantaire stared at him as if he’d just confessed to being Batman: with a mixture of disbelief, excitement, and joy.

Enjolras was suddenly acutely aware that he was leaning over Grantaire, who was sitting on a bed; he was holding his shoulder; their faces were close; and he wasn’t wearing any trousers. It was a very odd position to be in, and by all rights they should be pulling away from it by now. But Grantaire wasn’t moving, and neither was Enjolras. _Why are neither of us moving?_

“You really mean that?” Grantaire asked, his voice higher than usual.

“Really,” Enjolras breathed.

“Wow do you guys want a condom or something?”

Enjolras and Grantaire leapt apart, both turning swiftly to see Azelma leaning against the doorframe.

“Oh, don’t stop ‘cause of me,” she continued. “Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Enjolras coughed in embarrassment, running a hand through his hair to counter the horrible prickling feeling that was spreading up his neck and probably turning his face bright red.

“Who was that on the, uh, the phone?” Grantaire asked, slightly incoherently.

Azelma beamed. “New plans,” she declared. “How d’you feel about spending Crimbo with four-eyes?”

“Sounds great,” said Grantaire, shrugging. Enjolras must have looked confused, because the other man then added: “‘Four-eyes’ is Azelma’s creative nickname for Combeferre. They're based on your Facebook profiles.”

 “You in, blondie?”

 

\---

 

It was a good job that Combeferre always cooked too much food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fucking azelma
> 
> (of course combeferre was thoughtful enough to pick up gavroche and the christmas presents as well. what a guy)
> 
> anyway the christmas-time section of the plot is finally finished wow that was supposed to take one chapter rather than, what, three? i get the feeling that this whole thing is going to be much longer than i had originally planned. i'm very sorry for that


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Éponine has an Idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're moving forwards in time, at long last! thank the heavens

“You know, next Friday is the one year anniversary of our transformation into love-sick school-girls,” Éponine said, around a mouthful of toast. “Feels like we should do something to commemorate it.”

“Such as getting completely sloshed?” asked Grantaire.

“But that’s how we spend every Friday night.”

Grantaire shrugged at her. “Your point being?”

It was odd, thought Grantaire, how quickly things had slotted back into place. As the new year rolled in, meetings had resumed their weekly schedule, and Grantaire had returned to the group as if nothing had happened. He and Enjolras fell back into their casual bickering, without too much awkwardness.

Now it was February, and life had mostly returned to the status quo. Éponine still wasn’t speaking to her parents, but luckily Montparnasse had been too emasculated to admit that she’d beaten the shit out of him, and was avoiding them both to save his wounded pride. All was well. Or, at least, as well as it ever was.

Occasionally, Grantaire caught himself running over that conversation on Christmas Eve, subconsciously trying to pull a deeper meaning from Enjolras’ words, but he would quickly quash that line of speculation as soon as he noticed it. Enjolras had admitted to liking Grantaire’s presence – it was more than he could ever have wished of the quasi-deity. He should have been ecstatic to garner even that much of a notice. It should have been _enough_ for him. But, of course, Grantaire was his usual greedy self: he yearned for more. It was pathetic.

Éponine drummed her fingernails against the sideboard, bringing Grantaire back to himself. “Maybe we should just go for it. Ask them out on a date. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Just managing to avoid spilling his coffee, Grantaire choked out a laugh. “Yeah that’s a good one – ‘what’s the worst that could happen’ – very funny.”

“Well, I think that by this point we’ve established that neither of them is going to make the first move. So, unless you suddenly have your heart set on _actually_ marring me…”

“Eww.”

“Exactly! So just think about it, okay? Because I’m not doing it unless you do, too.”

He grimaced at her, knowing that she’d added that last part as emotional blackmail. It was all well and good for Éponine: Marius was such a nice guy that, even if he wanted nothing to do with her, he’d let her down gently and remain as friendly and courteous as ever. Enjolras, on the other hand… Yeah, there was no way that Grantaire was going to risk destroying their tentative friendship, especially when the chances of Enjolras accepting any date proposals were approximately zero. Even if Grantaire wasn’t Grantaire, he’d stand no chance. It didn’t seem that Enjolras dated _anyone_.

But she was looking at him with big, puppy-dog eyes, and he could never resist those.

“It's a terrible idea, but – fine – I’ll think about it. No promises, okay?”

Éponine fist-pumped triumphantly, and then grabbed his coffee and downed it in victory. The joke was on her; it was still boiling hot.

 

\---

 

By that Friday, Éponine had intimidated Grantaire into following her plan. The problem with this was that now she had to actually ask out Marius herself, and the thought of doing that was slightly terrifying. She had already considered backing out, but that would mean that Grantaire would back out too. He wasn’t getting away that easily.

Somewhat hoisted by her own petard, she was now nervously applying eyeliner over the bathroom sink, and trying not to rehearse cheesy lines in her head. _It’ll be easy_ , she told herself, _all you have to do is stop by the book-shop on the way to work, and then ask him quickly if he’d like to go out some time. Simple._

Éponine re-assessed her outfit in the mirror: dark skinny jeans, off-the-shoulder top, black kitten heels. Courfeyrac had helped her to pick it out, even giving her a lift to the shops to buy the top, in exchange for several Danish pastries. He had assured her that it was suitable for work, but at the same time said ‘look at me, I’m pretty and single’. She hoped he was right, because there really wasn’t time to change again.

Before she could over-think her appearance any more, she grabbed her handbag and headed out of the apartment. Grantaire had already left for his shift in the museum, so she locked up behind her, and then set out in the direction of the store where she worked. The book-shop that employed Marius was roughly en-route – it added about five minutes to her walk if she wanted to pass it, but she secretly did so on most days, regardless.

When she reached its squat exterior, Éponine checked her hair once more in the reflection of the window, and then pushed inside. The little bell above the door tinkled cheerily, alerting the staff to her presence.

An old man named Mabeuf, who often worked shifts alongside Marius, greeted her warmly. She was a relatively frequent customer, not only as an excuse to stalk Marius, but also because she did genuinely like books. When she was younger, before her parents had gone bust, she’d had her very own library card, and had read avidly. That kind of entertainment hadn’t been open to her once they’d moved into the seedy house (and seedier professions) currently occupied by her parents. It was nice to be able to browse books once more, to read whatever she wanted. But, sure, it was also nice if she managed to catch Marius stretching up to reach the highest shelf.

“Your friend’s in the back room,” Mabeuf told her. “You can go through and say hello, if you’d like.”

“Thanks, Monsieur,” she smiled, following his pointing finger.

Éponine found Marius behind a tower of cardboard boxes, scanning barcodes with a hand-held device.

“Oh, hello ‘Ponine. What’s up?”

Suddenly, Éponine’s mouth felt very dry. All of her pre-prepared lines were gone from her brain. _Fuck_.

“Uh… just thought I’d come say hi. You know, since I was passing.”

Marius turned to her, raising one eyebrow in a way which really wasn’t allowed to be that cute. “Well, hi. Are you on your way to work?”

She nodded mutely.

He smiled, crinkles forming around the corners of his eyes. “Cool. I like your top, by the way – did you buy it when you went shopping with Courf?”

Éponine couldn’t help but grin as she nodded again. Marius had actually _noticed_ her outfit! Surely that meant that he normally took account of what she wore? Furthermore, he had _conversations_ about her when she wasn’t there – the fact that the conversations were with Courfeyrac did make her worry a little, but she was willing to ignore that detail for now.

Bolstered by the remark, Éponine took a deep breath, and went for it: “Hey, Marius, do you want to go out some time? Like, to see a movie, or get lunch or something?”

Marius blinked a few times, as if confused by her apprehensive expression, and then smiled again. “Sure, that would be fun. I kind of need to get back to stock-checking these boxes, now, but how about I text you later to sort out a movie?”

Éponine tried desperately to keep her smile at a medium level of delight, and told him that that sounded great.

 

\---

 

It was nearing closing time at the Café Musain, and Enjolras still had five more pages of emails to check. Combeferre kept pointing out that it wouldn’t be nearly so overwhelming if he’d just unsubscribe from some of the various newsletters he read, but Enjolras was having none of that: he _liked_ the newsletters; he just rarely had time to peruse them. In an attempt to evade Combeferre’s nagging, he’d taken to reading them away from the apartment. It had worked so far.

A scraping noise wrenched his attention from the laptop screen before him. The previously-empty chair across the table now had a familiar occupant.

“Hello Grantaire,” he said, as politely as was possible. As nice as it was to see his friend, he really had wanted to finish checking through the emails before returning to Combeferre’s clutches.

“Hi Enjolras. Doing anything important?”

“Yes.”

“Cool, so anyway I wanted to talk to you.”

With a sigh of resignation, Enjolras shut his laptop – he knew from experience that Grantaire wouldn’t go away if he just continued working.

Enjolras had been expecting a confrontation of this nature at some point. Although he and Grantaire had returned to their original half-friendship-half-rivalry after the events at the end of the last year, they hadn’t spoken at all about it since. They especially hadn’t spoken about Christmas Eve, past Enjolras promising not to press charges. He wasn’t sure why, but he could definitely sense some unresolved tension between them, and he was sure that it stemmed from that subject.

In fact, Enjolras himself still had many questions for the other man: why would Grantaire involve himself in criminal activities? Why wouldn’t Grantaire spend Christmas with his own family? Why couldn’t Enjolras stop recalling the warmth of Grantaire’s skin at such proximity?

He probably couldn’t ask that last one, though.

Perhaps he was over-thinking things. There was no reason for Grantaire to still have that night on his mind, not after two months. Come to think of it, there was no reason for it to be in Enjolras’ thoughts, either.

Shoving aside a sudden mental image of how Grantaire’s pupils had dilated as they’d locked eyes, Enjolras focused his attention on the real-life version sat before him. “I’m all ears.”

Grantaire sat forwards, and then backwards, and then ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, gaze roaming around the room as if searching for inspiration. He didn’t usually fidget this much, or have trouble finding words – Enjolras wondered what he could have to say that was putting him so on-edge.

The man sat forwards again, a faint smile twisting at his mouth. “Huh, I’m not really sure how to start with this.” He tapped his fingers against the table, and then noticed he was doing it and stopped. “So… Okay, so I was speaking to Éponine, right?”

Enjolras nodded encouragingly.

“No, wait, that’s not really where I wanted to start. Fuck. Uh, so… Hey, do you remember back when we met?”

“I guess so,” Enjolras replied, trying desperately to find some sense in the conversation. “It was in here, wasn’t it?”

“Yes! You remember – good!” Grantaire beamed, and then frowned slightly. “Not that you wouldn’t remember. But, still. It was about a year ago, you know? Well, actually, it was a year ago today. Wait, fuck, that’s not what… I mean, I haven’t been counting the days or anything creepy like that.”

“I didn’t think you had been,” Enjolras assured him. “But that’s interesting, that we’ve known each other for a year. Should we be wishing one another a happy anniversary, or something?” He knew that jokes weren’t his forte, but Grantaire was beginning to look so tightly-wound that Enjolras felt obliged to lighten the mood. He wasn’t at all used to seeing the cynic _stressing_ over something; it was unnatural.

Grantaire laughed nervously. “Yeah… So, it’s been a good year, right? I mean, apart from that whole not-talking-to-each-other thing. Other than that, it’s been cool. Being around each other and stuff. Yeah?”

“Sure, it’s been ‘cool’,” Enjolras agreed. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Right, so I was thinking that it would be nice to, I don’t know, see more of each other? Like, um, hang out outside of meetings. Could we do that?” Oddly, Grantaire’s voice had climbed several octaves over the course of his speech.

Enjolras blinked at him a few times, trying to process the question. “You don’t have to ask permission to hang out with me, Grantaire,” he said. “We’re friends, after all; we can meet up whenever you want. Isn’t that kind of what we’re doing now?”

Grantaire flushed slightly, keeping his gaze fixed to the table in front of him, rather than meeting Enjolras’ eyes. “No, I mean, like… Like, go out to places. Together.”

Still not understanding Grantaire’s thought processes, Enjolras rubbed absently at his temple. “I don’t really know what you’re asking me, Grantaire. ‘Go out’, as in, on a day-trip?”

Grantaire met his eyes with a pained expression. “No, like, on a date.”

Whatever he’d expected, it hadn’t been that.

“Oh,” said Enjolras.

“Ah,” said Enjolras.

“Um,” said Enjolras.

He was doing really well so far.

Grantaire had been steadily turning paler – an impressive feat, given his usual pallid complexion – and now stood up abruptly, chair squeaking against the floor. “Fuck. Forget I said anything, I was just… It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry. Fuck.” He spun quickly on his heel, marching towards the door without looking back at Enjolras.

Finally able to co-ordinate his brain and mouth, Enjolras called after him, but either Grantaire didn’t hear, or chose to ignore him. _Goddammit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is the obligatory drunken feelings-jam with friends, and the non-obligatory-but-still-polite response to Grantaire's proposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh gosh we're on 10 chapters already. how exciting!

By his fourth shot, the clamour of self-castigations in Grantaire’s mind had withered into a pulsing background of white-noise. He grimaced as he knocked back a fifth drink, barely tasting it. He was such a _fool_ – what had he been thinking?

Joly patted his left shoulder, presumably in a gesture of sympathy. On Grantaire’s right-hand side, Bahorel ordered another round for the trio.

“You know,” Bahorel remarked to Grantaire, “We’re much better drinking buddies if we know _why_ we’re drinking.”

Grantaire groaned in response, folding forwards to rest his forehead against the bar-top. It was pleasantly cool against his skin, and he absently wondered if he could just stay there for the rest of the evening. Or the rest of his life. His life which was essentially _over_. He groaned again.

“That bad?” Joly asked.

A clinking alerted Grantaire to the appearance of the next set of shots. Reluctantly prising his face away from the polished wood, he took the nearest glass and downed it without waiting for the other two.

“Look, man, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” said Bahorel, “But I am totally here to lend an ear, or a shoulder to cry on, or whatever body part it is that I’m meant to lend in this situation. I can’t speak for Joly’s body parts, but I expect he feels the same.”

Joly nodded in agreement.

Flopping back over, Grantaire puffed out a sigh. After having thoroughly embarrassed himself in front of Enjolras, he had made an immediate beeline for the Corinthe in the hope that he could drink himself into oblivion free from harassment. Regrettably, Bahorel and Joly had already been there.  To be fair, Bahorel _had_ just bought them all six rounds of limoncello without pestering Grantaire once, and Joly would probably make sure that nobody died of alcohol poisoning. Grantaire supposed that he owed them an explanation.

Besides, it wasn’t like anything that he did now could possibly make his evening worse.

“If I tell you, you’re not allowed to laugh,” Grantaire instructed, returning to a vertical position, and jabbing an accusatory finger in Bahorel’s direction.

Bahorel raised his hands defensively. “Hey, would I laugh at your problems?”

“You probably would,” said Joly. “Remember the time that Bossuet fell down the escalator? You couldn’t even breathe for about five minutes. You nearly _fainted_.”

“But that was hilarious!”

Grantaire jabbed at Bahorel again. “You’re not allowed to laugh,” he repeated.

The man considered this for a moment. “Okay, I won’t. I pinkie promise.” He proffered a hand, smallest finger crooked.

Grantaire rolled his eyes, but obligingly linked his own finger around the other man’s. Say what you might about Bahorel; he never did break a pinkie promise.

“So, what happened?” asked Joly.

“I did a very stupid thing. _Very_ stupid.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” muttered Bahorel.

Grantaire scowled at him. “Shut up. Do you want to hear the story or not?”

Bahorel mimed zipping his lips, and then raised his eyebrows expectantly.

The chain of events was even more humiliating in the telling, now that Grantaire could look back on his actions with the benefit of hindsight. He explained Éponine’s idea of ‘just going for it’, and his own completely botched attempt at doing so, and the expression of utter bewilderment on Enjolras’ face as he’d finally understood what Grantaire was asking – the fact that it had taken him so long really should have tipped Grantaire off to his disinterest – at which point Grantaire had to take a break from story-telling to stare at the empty shot glass in his hands ( _not_ because his eyes were beginning to mist up).

Bahorel surprisingly did not to laugh. “Fuck,” he finally said, generously averting his gaze from Grantaire.

Joly called for Gibelotte to pour them three pints, also looking away.

“Thanks,” Grantaire mumbled. “Thought you weren’t meant to mix drinks, though.”

“Studies have shown that the overall alcohol content is far more important than the type of beverage. Also, the sugar content of limoncello is outrageous and I am not too keen on developing diabetes just yet.”

Bahorel snorted from Grantaire’s other side. “Like a fucking medical encyclopaedia.”

Joly reached behind Grantaire to shove the larger man, nearly toppling off his stool as he did so. Obviously the alcohol content was already taking effect.

By this point, the barmaid had procured the three glasses of beer, and they were set down in front of the men somewhat unceremoniously.

“So what’re you going to do?” Bahorel asked, reaching for his drink.

Grantaire shrugged. He’d been asking himself the same question ever since he’d left the Musain, and still had no answer. Perhaps he should just pack up and leave, sparing Enjolras from having to tolerate his presence any longer. It was typical of Grantaire, really, that when he finally had the attention of the man he’d adored for _months_ , he would ruin it straight away with his own pathetic greed. Enjolras was probably livid at having been deceived for so long – how the fuck had Grantaire thought that it was okay to drag him into a friendship with ulterior motives? Grantaire had taken advantage of the other man’s trust and benevolence. Considering that Enjolras was rarely benevolent – outside of literal charity – this was all the worse. Never mind livid; Enjolras would be _disgusted_.

“I’m sure he’s not, like, mad at you,” Bahorel supplied, evidently guessing at his thoughts.

Grantaire shot him a look, which was meant to be disparaging, but was probably closer to ‘watery’.

“You know Enjolras: he’ll be more upset with himself for not noticing your feelings, or something,” said Joly. He took a sip of beer, looking pensive. “You didn’t really give him a chance to reply, did you?”

Bahorel chuckled. “Hell; that was a terrible move. Now he’s had time to write a novel-length speech in response. I’ll bet he’s working it out right now. He might actually talk your ear off the next time you see him.”

With a moan, Grantaire sunk further into his seat – which was quite a feat on a barstool. “If this is your idea of cheering me up…”

“What I’m trying to say,” Bahorel interrupted, emphasising his words with a waggle of his bottle, “is that you can stop worrying about his reaction, because he’ll definitely want to solve the situation. He wants to solve everything. At all times.”

Joly nudged against Grantaire’s shoulder. “Do you remember that time with the ‘fiendish’ level Sudoku puzzles?”

Grantaire couldn’t help smiling at that. “Yeah, we didn’t see him all week.”

“Exactly!” said Bahorel.

“Doesn’t mean he wants to talk to me, though.”

Bahorel tapped the side of his nose, and tried to wink – obviously the alcohol was also getting to him, because it manifested as more of a grimace. “I am absolutely certain that he wants to talk to you.”

“How?”

“Because he’s been lurking in the doorway over there for the past ten minutes or so.” He gave a little wave to somewhere behind Grantaire. “Hey Enj, come and join us.”

Grantaire spun around so wildly that he almost fell off the barstool.

Sure enough, there was Enjolras, looking mildly put-out at having been discovered eavesdropping, but definitely in the flesh. Grantaire felt his stomach drop in sudden terror, his palms prickling, accompanied by a dreadful flicker of hope in his chest, and the ridiculous fluttering, somewhere around his navel, that always overcame him when Enjolras entered a room. Mostly, he felt queasy – although that might have been due to the limoncello. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to bolt, or to remain paralysed in his seat.

“Yes, hello,” Enjolras said sheepishly, as he entered the room. “I was just, uh…”

Joly stood swiftly, saving the blonde from having to finish the excuse. “Actually, I’m afraid that it’s time for me to meet Bossuet at the metro station, so I can’t hang around. You know how he is – if I don’t walk home with him then he’ll get mugged or something.”

Bahorel also vacated his barstool. “I’ll come with you, because, uh… Oh, fuck it, I can’t think of an excuse.” He gestured to Grantaire and Enjolras. “You two. Talk.”

Grantaire briefly considered preventing them from leaving him alone with the man – who had undoubtedly come to rage at him – but then realised that he’d rather Joly and Bahorel didn’t overhear.

As they made to leave, Bahorel threw a wad of cash onto the bar. “That should cover the tab,” he said genially, and then clapped Enjolras on the shoulder as he passed. “Play nicely.”

Joly followed him out of the door, clumsily shrugging into a raincoat despite the apparent lack of rain outside. At the same time, Gibelotte conscientiously slipped into the back room, leaving Grantaire alone with Enjolras. Grantaire couldn’t decide if he’d drunk too much or too little for the impending conversation.

Unexpectedly, Enjolras didn’t immediately launch into a rant, but rather crossed the room and perched himself on the barstool which had previously been occupied by Joly. Grantaire could practically feel the blonde watching him; a shivering sensation was creeping up his spine under the scrutiny. He refused to lift his head to meet Enjolras’ gaze, instead fixing his sight on his own hands, gripping one another in his lap. He would let Enjolras speak first – better to get it over with as quickly as possible.

“It looks like I find myself, yet again, apologising to you. This is becoming something of a habit,” said Enjolras.

Grantaire blinked a few times. Surely he’d misheard?

“I’m sorry for upsetting you. I really should have handled that situation better. You took me by surprise, but that’s not much of an excuse.”

“You’re not mad at me?” Grantaire asked, mentally wincing at the waver in his voice. Hopefully Enjolras hadn’t noticed it.

“Of course not – you didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, if you think about it, you were complimenting me. Do I really act so horribly that you think I’d chastise you for that?” His tone sounded light, almost jocular, but the question was undercut with something sincere, perhaps even anxious.

“No, no, of course not!” Grantaire reassured him hurriedly. The last thing he wanted was to insult Enjolras, even if the insult was slightly true. The other man _could_ be horrible if he wanted to, but Grantaire wasn’t about to point that out.

“Good,” said Enjolras. His voice held the hint of a smile, although Grantaire still wasn’t looking at his face, and so couldn’t confirm this. “Anyway, it was very rude of me not to reply to you. Now that I’ve had some time to think, I have a much more appropriate response.”

“You don’t have to give one,” said Grantaire dejectedly. He really didn’t want to hear Enjolras list all the things that were wrong with him, all the reasons that Enjolras could never be interested in him romantically, all the ways that Grantaire was completely inadequate.

“I’d like to,” said Enjolras, voice firm. “It’s only common decency. So, let’s pretend that all this in-between stuff hasn’t happened, and that you’ve just asked me on a date.”

Grantaire flinched at the words, which only served to remind him of how stupid he was. He could feel his face reddening.

“Gosh, Grantaire,” said Enjolras, feigning surprise, “that’s very kind of you – it’s nice to know that you enjoy my company so much. I like spending time with you, too, but I think that I would prefer it if the time we spent together was framed in a context of friendship. I don’t want you to think that this is because I don’t imagine that going on a date with you would be fun – because I’m sure that it would be – when rather it’s because I do not really date. Between my studies, my voluntary work, and _Les Amis_ , I’m pretty busy.” His voice was still falsely saccharine, but it somehow verged on a genuine tenderness. Grantaire briefly wondered if Enjolras was just creating excuses out of pity, but that seemed even more uncharacteristic than if his words were the truth. “I simply haven’t the time for dating, and would make a terrible boyfriend – if it got to that. Anyone who dated me would be horrifically neglected, and would probably grow to hate me within days. Therefore, out of respect for our friendship, I am forced to decline your thoughtful offer. I hope that this is okay with you?”

Grantaire finally dragged his gaze up to meet Enjolras’. The blonde was looking at him expectantly, a half-smile twitching on his lips. As always, he looked divine: hair curling softly around his face; eyes bright and unblinking; skin positively glowing in the amber light from the bar. Grantaire ignored the tugging in his chest, where the cordially-worded rejection was slowly ripping at his heart, and forced himself to smile in response. “Yeah, sure,” he said, managing to keep his voice steady, “It’s no biggie. Like you said, I just thought it would be fun.”

Enjolras offered his right hand. “Still friends?”

“Still friends,” Grantaire repeated, taking his hand and shaking it.

As he did so, Grantaire recalled that his last proper handshake had been to make the Pact with Éponine. There was something disgustingly ironic in the symmetry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well at least he was nice about it  
> i haven't forgotten about éponine - she'll make her dazzling return next chapter
> 
> as a very rough estimate, i think that - in terms of chapters - i'm about half-way through. i do tend to have a habit of accidentally spending more chapters on a plot point than i initially plan for, but i shall strive not to do this. let's call this a provisional half-way point. don't quote me on this


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a date doesn't exactly happen.

It had been something of a downer when Éponine returned home from work, bearing her news of an upcoming date with Marius, only to find Grantaire absolutely twatted on the couch.

Once she’d managed to extract the story of his rejection, she almost hadn’t the heart to tell him of her own success. Almost. She at least had the good grace to feel guilty about it afterwards.

The negative feelings soon left her, however, when she received a text from Marius the morning after, suggesting they go to the cinema next Saturday afternoon. He said that he really wanted to see this new rom-com, but that Courfeyrac had been refusing to go with him for weeks. If even Courfeyrac was avoiding the film, Éponine knew that it must be terrible, but she would have agreed to watch _Hannah Montana: The Movie_ if it secured her a date with Marius.

Grantaire didn’t sulk too much about it. He did make her do the washing up for the rest of the week, though.

When Saturday arrived, Éponine found herself once again fussing in front of the bathroom mirror. She didn’t like to think of herself as the kind of girl who cared about her appearance, but she had to admit that all the evidence was pointing that way.

“You can’t wear that skirt,” Grantaire said, appearing in the doorway. “It’s too short.”

Éponine frowned at his reflection, pausing in her mascara application. “How many times have you heard the speech about the hypocrisy of policing women’s fashion?”

Grantaire smiled loosely, moving into the room to slouch against their shared laundry basket. “I don’t mean it like that – I mean it’s too short for a date with Pontmercy. He is still blissfully ignorant of womanly wiles; he’d probably have a heart-attack at that much thigh. I’m not sure he’s aware that women _have_ thighs.”

“I’m not changing now. Besides, I have it on reliable authority that this skirt makes my ass look fantastic.”

“If the reliable authority is Courfeyrac, it doesn’t count. _Any_ compliment from Courfeyrac doesn’t count; he hands them out as freely as Joly does health tips.”

“It wasn’t from Courf,” she lied. “Anyway, ‘Ferre agreed with him.”

“That counts even less.”

Éponine made a shushing motion, returning to her mascara. “Just because they are both kind people who like to say nice things to their friends, it doesn’t mean that they’re lying. You really are far too cynical for your own good.”

Grantaire’s face darkened marginally at her remark. “So I’ve been told.” He didn’t add the ‘by Enjolras’ that they both knew should end that sentence.

She knew that it made her a bad friend, but Éponine really didn’t want to get into that conversation with only ten minutes left ( _fuck_ ) before Marius was meant to be picking her up. Instead, she applied her lip-gloss as an excuse not to speak.

In the mirror, she saw Grantaire shake himself, and a determined smile plastered his face. “Never the matter,” he said cheerily, “I suppose you’re right. Your ass does, indeed, look fantastic. Of course, that might result in the literal death of Pontmercy, but don’t let that ruin your fun.”

Éponine flipped him off, and then jumped as a shrill ringing filled the apartment.

“Shit! He’s early.”

Grantaire laughed at her panicked expression. “Calm down: I’ll let him in.”

Éponine hurried the remainder of her makeup routine, and exited the bathroom with her nerves jittering. She still couldn’t believe that Marius was taking her out on a date. _Marius was taking her out on a date!_ She was beaming as she entered the hall.

And there was Marius: laughing with Grantaire; wearing a polo-neck shirt that somehow made him look both adorable and incredibly attractive; and turning to look at her with a breath-taking smile on his face.

“Hi ‘Ponine,” he said, and she tried not to melt visibly. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes!” she replied, a little over-enthusiastically. _Cool it, ‘Ponine,_ she told herself, _try not to scare him off just yet_.

“Okay, great,” Marius said, “the movie finishes at six, so if you want we can get some food afterwards. I’m borrowing Courf’s car, so we don’t need to worry about bus times or anything.”

“Just have her back before midnight,” said Grantaire, eyes glinting mischievously. “Or the spell will wear off.”

Éponine elbowed him on her way out of the door.

As she and Marius descended the stairs, she glanced back to see Grantaire watching, wearing an expression of melancholy. Would he be okay, left to wallow in his heartache whilst she went on a date? She hoped so. But she wasn’t exactly concentrated on worrying about him right now.

 

\---

 

Alone in the apartment, Grantaire tried not to wallow in his heartache. He also tried to ignore the growing desire for a drink; he was determined to break the chain of hangovers that had haunted him since the previous Friday’s events. Besides, he didn’t need a drink because he was very happy for Éponine. _Very_ happy.

With a grimace, he perched on the sofa, grabbing the remote for the TV. Maybe some channel-hopping could distract him from his thoughts.

He only made it through fifteen minutes of a dating game-show before giving in, and abandoning the TV in search of a beverage. The can of Stella Artois in the fridge door seemed like a safe choice, given the relatively low alcohol content. It hardly even counted as a drink, in Grantaire’s opinion.

Grantaire returned to the sofa, clutching his can. The game-show had, by now, skipped ahead in time to show how the sickeningly perfect couple were doing six months later. They were doing very well, it appeared, and the woman was sporting a gaudy diamond ring in testimony. He took a long drink from the bottle, and zapped the TV off again.

Ordinarily, if he was this bored, he would initiate a Facebook-argument with Enjolras. Given the cause of his current woes, that wasn’t much of an option. He hadn’t spoken to Enjolras outside of _Les Amis’_ meetings since that Friday, but he counted it as a personal victory that they _were_ still speaking at all. Sure, any conversations were now accompanied by minor emotional agony, but that was beside the point.

Maybe he could call Courfeyrac; the guy always revelled in solving other people’s problems. Or possibly he just really liked being up-to-date on gossip. Either way, Grantaire could while away an hour or so by complaining to him. On the other hand, the chances of Courfeyrac being at home on a Saturday evening were pretty slim.

Not really expecting Courfeyrac to pick up, Grantaire dialled his number. He felt nevertheless disheartened when the dial tone gave over to his voicemail service. Instead, Grantaire tapped out a quick text message.

 

**R** : i’m sad and bored because ep is on her silly date. what are you doing?

 

After that, Grantaire managed to find a re-run of an old Doctor Who episode, which held his attention for the next half an hour. The dubbing was truly atrocious, but there was something inherently entertaining about watching Daleks getting blown up.

Courfeyrac finally replied to him as the end credits were playing.

 

**Courf** : Ep’s on a date? I thought she was hanging out with Marius. or was he just lying to get his hands on my car? the bastard! x

**R** : she’s on a date with marius. duh

 

It seemed odd that Marius hadn’t told Courfeyrac about the date – the two did live together, after all, and were extremely close. Courfeyrac was probably Marius’ best friend. Marius wasn’t Courfeyrac’s best friend, because everyone was Courfeyrac’s best friend, but there was definitely a special place in Courfeyrac’s heart for him. In any case, it seemed unthinkable that Marius would keep any secrets from Courfeyrac. It was a surprise that he hadn’t been the first person alerted.

Grantaire frowned. Was Marius _ashamed_ to be dating Éponine? Strong words would definitely be had, if this was the case.

Courfeyrac’s text alert blared out again – a High School Musical song, hand-selected by the man himself. Grantaire cut it off quickly, not much in the mood to be hearing about Gabriella and Troy’s beautiful romance.

 

**Courf** : woah are you sure it’s a date? I can’t believe he wouldn’t tell me that wtf. x

**R** : well i'm pretty sure, as i saw him pick her up with my own two eyes. do you think he’s embarrassed or something?

**Courf** : idk. maybe it’s just a friend date and you’ve misunderstood. x

 

A cold feeling crept into Grantaire’s stomach, and he downed the last of his drink to stifle it. He was in no doubt that Éponine believed the date to be a ‘proper’ date. But what about Marius? He tried to remember exactly what Éponine had told him of their conversation, but drew up blank. He’d been very drunk when she’d given him the news.

Was it possible that some crossed wires had led to Marius thinking that he and Éponine were just going to the movies ‘as friends’? Grantaire shook his head at the thought. He couldn’t believe that anyone could be that out-of-touch with other people’s emotions – not even Marius.

Actually, there _was_ one person who he could imagine making that mistake… But Grantaire wasn’t going to think about Enjolras. It was pointless; the other man wasn’t interested in him, and so obsessing over it was just unhealthy.

Realising that his thoughts had careened in the exact wrong direction, he returned his attention to texting Courfeyrac.

 

**R** : i guess we’ll just have to wait to find out

**Courf** : ok. look, I have to go now – I have an ACTUAL date. text me the result. ttyl. x

 

Grantaire locked his phone, and resignedly rose to fetch another Stella from the fridge.

 

\---

 

Marius pulled up to the curb, narrowly avoiding a collision with the stationary mini parked in front of them. Éponine was just thankful that he hadn’t had to parallel park.

The low rumble of the engine was cut off abruptly as Marius removed the keys from the ignition. A beeping reminded him that he’d left his headlights on, and he quickly shut them off, too.

A silence filled the car, making Éponine suddenly very aware that it was the end of the date. It had been a great date. For a start, the movie hadn’t been nearly as bad as she’d dreaded. Marius had really seemed to enjoy it, and got a bit teary-eyed at the ending, which was all kinds of cute. Even if the clichéd plot-line hadn’t exactly captivated her, she had definitely appreciated the chance to sit next to Marius in the near-darkness for two hours: frequently glancing up at his handsome features, which were cast into relief by the blue light of the screen; brushing her hand against his as they both reached for the pop-corn; even leaning her head against his shoulder, after a while. He hadn’t moved away.

After that, they’d gone out for pizza, and laughed over the film and their friends. It was fun, even if Marius wasn’t quite as physically affectionate as she’d have liked. But that was Marius, with his dated (but endearing) ideas of chivalry and gentlemanliness – never wanting to do anything ‘untoward’. She could forgive the lack of hand-holding, in light of this.

And now the date was over, and Éponine found herself wondering if the Hollywood-style end-of-date-kiss was another traditional feature of courtship to which Marius would adhere. Unbidden, her pulse quickened; her heart felt as if it had climbed up to her throat. Would he kiss her?

Marius half-turned to her, raising his eyebrows. “It’s drizzling a bit,” he said. “I can get my umbrella out of the back and walk you to your door, if you like?”

She nodded quickly. It was true that it was raining, and her apartment was still about a hundred metres away – thanks to the lack of parking spots – but it wasn’t so much of a downpour that it necessitated an umbrella. Marius must have been using it as an excuse to get back to her apartment. She wondered if he wanted to kiss her on the doorstep. Maybe he was hoping she’d invite him in. She would never have pegged him as a ‘fuck on the first date’ guy, but it was possible. She’d definitely be okay with that.

Marius clambered out of the car, retrieved an umbrella from the back-seat, and walked around to open her door for her. He offered his hand to help her up, and she felt a thrill at the contact as she took it.

They walked to the front door huddled under the umbrella, arms brushing against one another. Éponine couldn’t believe that this was happening.

After what felt like the longest walk of her life, they arrived at the relative shelter of her doorway.

Marius turned to face her, his ridiculously pretty eyelashes fluttering slightly in the soft porch light. Éponine’s breath caught in her throat.

“So,” he said slowly, flashing her that stupid half-smile of his. “Thanks for coming out with me, ‘Ponine. It was really fun. We should do it again some time.”

“Uh-huh,” said Éponine, not trusting herself to form actual words. She tried to force her expression into an invitation.

“It’s nice to have someone other than Courf with whom to watch movies. Not that he isn’t great, but he always hogs the pop-corn.”

Éponine nodded in agreement, biting slightly on her lower lip. _Come on, Marius, you have my permission to kiss me._

“Anyway,” he continued. “We’re home before midnight. So Grantaire can’t tell me off.”

“Uh-huh,” she said again.

Marius shifted his weight to his other foot, angling the umbrella back into the drizzle slightly. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “Good night.”

He moved, as if to step off of the front step, and Éponine did the only thing she could think to. She reached out, tugging his shirt so that he faced her, and surged up to kiss him. His whole body tensed against her, and for a few moments he didn’t respond.

Then he brought his hands up to meet her shoulders, and pushed her away.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice several octaves higher than normal. He looked completely shocked.

Éponine felt a lump begin to form in her throat. She swallowed nervously, trying not to panic. “Oh God, I’m sorry, I thought–” She could feel her face burning. “I’m sorry: I should have asked first, I just–”

Marius’ face had also turned red. “Gosh ‘Ponine, I’m sorry, I don’t…”

Éponine felt her eyes prickling. She was _not_ going to cry. She scrubbed at them furiously, stepping further away from Marius. “No, this is all my fault. Fuck. It was just, you know, what normally happens at the end of a date.” She made a face at her own words, aware of how stupid she must sound. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Marius made an odd choking noise. “Wait, this was a date?”

“I… Yes! What? I mean, wasn’t it?”

“Oh my God; I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.” He looked absolutely distraught. “‘Ponine, I cannot apologise enough, I had no idea. I thought we were just going out as friends. I don’t know what to say…”

Éponine screwed her eyes shut, and let out a long breath. “Look, can you just leave?” She knew that it was rude, but she was beyond caring. She was a naïve, hopeless idiot, and she suddenly understood why Grantaire had spent the past week mostly drunk or asleep. God, Grantaire: she was a terrible friend for having abandoned him all night, but she wanted nothing more right now than to snuggle up to him on the sofa and have a good cry.

“Are you–?”

“Just go, Marius.”

This time, he obeyed. She didn’t wait to see whether he’d look back – just opened the door and practically fell into the apartment stairwell.

 

\---

 

Grantaire was jolted awake – and yes, he was that loser that was asleep at 10PM on a Saturday night – by the sound of keys in the door. Shortly afterwards, Éponine shuffled into the room, her eye makeup a mess and her face completely crestfallen.

Wordlessly, he scooted over to make room for her on the sofa, and handed her the bottle of wine onto which he had moved. They were right back to ground zero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who is courfeyrac dating? we may never know. i don't even know. decide for yourselves.
> 
> anyway, i promise to put something happier in the next chapter!!
> 
> also, i would fully recommend locating some french-dubbed doctor who. it is hilariously bad.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an engagement party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this chapter is a little longer than usual, because i wanted to do the whole thing in one, rather than split it up across chapters
> 
> i'd also like to thank everyone who's been reading this - wow, look, i have 100 kudos! i never expected anyone to actually be interested in what i was writing, or to actually persevere with the writing, so it really means a lot to me. thanks, guys!
> 
> also, as you can see, i've finally committed myself to an overall number of chapters. so there should be 20 in total. i'm really hoping that i can stick to this now, but i am kind of awful at keeping to plans...

After their catastrophic attempts at wooing, Grantaire and Éponine found themselves faced with the original plan becoming a reality. They were going to get married. Like, for real.

It was around June when they realised that it is generally frowned upon for two people get married out of the blue – especially when the families of these people believe them to be in a genuine, long-term relationship. In fact, for most partners, marriage is kind of a Big Thing. Their respective parents would get very suspicious if they did not treat it as a Big Thing. This meant an actual wedding ceremony. This meant an engagement period. This meant an engagement _party_.

As a result of this realisation, Grantaire and Éponine were now sitting on their living room rug, blank party invitations strewn about them, and poring over a list of names.

“Do we really have to invite my father?” Grantaire asked, a hint of a whine creeping into his voice.

Éponine swatted him with her left hand, on which an engagement ring glittered.

Grantaire had been all for ignoring the custom of giving rings, but Éponine had pointed out that it would seem extremely odd to his parents if his fiancée wasn’t wearing one. This was a rational argument, but he was reasonably sure that her main motivation was a desire for some new bling. Grantaire’s scepticism was quickly confirmed by her demand for 18-carat white gold. He had met her halfway: she could have a ring, but definitely not that one.

 “If I have to invite my parents, then you have to invite yours. Besides, you can hardly invite Charlotte and not invite them.”

“Charlotte gave us the ring,” Grantaire grumbled in response. “So we owe her. And she won’t come, anyway; she’s too busy with work. My parents, on the other hand, _would_ come, and I don’t owe them jack.”

Charlotte was Grantaire’s older sister, a publisher from Labège. The siblings didn’t often see one another, and Grantaire wouldn’t have described them as ‘close’, but she was still his favourite relative. This wasn’t saying much, considering that his parents were permanently disappointed in him, and his grandparents had the two drawbacks of being bigoted and dead. Evidently, his feelings towards his grandmother had been reciprocated, as all the family jewellery had been left to Charlotte when the old woman popped her clogs.

Once Grantaire realised how much it cost to buy a ring, and had received an hour’s lecture on blood diamonds from Enjolras, he’d decided to scrounge an heirloom from Charlotte instead. The ring in question was largely unobtrusive, with a stone the size of an under-developed gnat, but it _was_ an engagement ring.

“You may not owe them anything yet,” Éponine reasoned, “but I was hoping they’d pitch in for the ceremony, seeing how they’re obscenely rich, and we are not.”

With a disgusted flourish, Grantaire added them to the guest list. Even with the addendum, it still wasn’t particularly long. That suited him just fine.

“Okay, so that’s both of our families accounted for,” Éponine said, peering over his shoulder. “Plus our mutual friends.”

“You mean our only friends,” Grantaire huffed.

“Speak for yourself: I have many friends.” She paused for a moment, apparently searching for an example. “Oh, I know! Add, uh, whatshername to the list.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

“You know. Colette, or whatever it is. Add her dad, too.”

“Look, Ép, you don’t have to make up friends…”

“I’m not!” Éponine cried indignantly. “She went to our high school, remember? She was my best friend as a kid. Well, maybe not _best_ friend. More of a playmate.” She chewed her lip pensively. “Actually, we kind of hated each other. But I’m sure all that bad blood’s behind us now – her dad sends us Christmas cards every year. With money.” Her eyes suddenly brightened. “Hey, maybe if we invite them to the party he’ll cough up some cash.”

Grantaire shrugged, and obligingly wrote ‘Colette plus one’ on the list. He doubted that such a loose acquaintance would turn up, but if it made Éponine happy…

God, he sounded whipped already.

 

\---

 

On some misguided impulse, Éponine had agreed to let Courfeyrac organise the engagement party. Thankfully, Combeferre had stepped in before any strippers were hired (“Never mind,” was Courfeyrac’s response, “We’ll save those for the stag night”), but not before it was arranged for the back room of the Corinthe to be filled with four litres of confetti, multi-coloured fairy lights, and a grotesque disco ball.

Éponine stood in the centre of the room, looking up at the glittering globe in horror. This was entirely her fault for using the word ‘party’ around Courfeyrac, she supposed. But it was too late to redecorate now.

“T minus five minutes,” Grantaire alerted her, as he sauntered into the room wearing an approximation of black tie. He still had his usual ‘just rolled out of bed’ look, but the dark trousers and jacket were marginally smarter than the habitual t-shirt and jeans. She nodded her approval, nervously smoothing down the fabric of her own silver cocktail dress. They had decided on the semi-formal dress code with the hope of appeasing Grantaire’s parents, both of whom seemed to have a permanent rod up the ass. Éponine only hoped that they wouldn’t notice the disco ball. She smoothed her dress again.

“You look lovely,” Grantaire reassured her, “Although you always look lovely, snookums.”

Éponine stuck out her tongue in return – she had already made it clear that she did _not_ appreciate his use of ironic pet names – but secretly felt a little better.

The guests soon began to arrive, garbed in varying interpretations of the dress code. At one side of the scale, Enjolras rocked up wearing an immaculate dinner suit that caused Grantaire to turn red and steal Éponine’s glass of Cava. At the other end, Éponine had to send Bahorel home to change, because the ripped scarlet jeans were pushing it a little too far.

Éponine was just issuing strict instructions to the bar-staff that they were _not_ to give Gavroche anything alcoholic, no matter how realistic his ID looked, when there was a small tap on her shoulder. She turned to see a blonde woman – probably about her age – who looked vaguely familiar, although Éponine couldn’t quite place her. Was she one of Grantaire’s work colleagues?

The girl smiled hesitantly, but her voice was warm enough when she spoke. “Hi, you’re Éponine, aren’t you? I barely recognise you – it’s been so long! Papa and I were a little surprised by your invitation, to be honest, but it’s lovely to see you again.”

Éponine stared. No way. No fucking way. There was no way in hell that this beautiful figure was the scruffy little girl from her childhood, whom she had only invited on a whim. But who else called their dad ‘Papa’? How many other blonde girls had Éponine invited? It _had_ to be her. Somehow, the ugly duckling had transformed into a perfect, bottle-blonde, blue eyed Barbie doll. Sure, Éponine hadn’t seen her in the last five years or so, but still. What the actual fuck?

Realising that the girl – whose name she still didn’t fully recall – had put out a hand for her to shake, Éponine took it. “Yeah, wow,” she said, “I just really wanted you guys to come as a token of appreciation to your dad. He always sends us cards and stuff; it’s really sweet.”

The girl (her name couldn’t be Colette: it didn’t sound right) smiled again. “So, I don’t know anyone here. I was wondering if you could introduce me to your, um, fiancé?”

Éponine tried to think of an excuse not to do so, but then noticed that her mother was lurking nearby, and decided that spending time with the girl would be slightly less unpleasant. “Sure, he’s over there,” she said, pointing to where Grantaire was standing with Feuilly and – oh fuck – Marius.

It wasn’t that she was avoiding Marius, but their dynamic had felt somehow ‘off’ since February. Mostly, it seemed that her crush made him awfully uncomfortable, and interacting with him often resulted in crippling embarrassment on all parts. But she’d already pointed them out to Whatshername, so interaction with him was looking inevitable.

The girl followed her over to the group of men, walking with a delicate grace that made Éponine grind her teeth. Life just wasn’t fair.

Grantaire was the first of the trio to notice their approach, and he broke away from his conversation with Feuilly to give a little wave. “Ah, there you are, baby cakes. And who is this vision in blue? Your friend Colette, I presume?”

The girl giggled winningly. “Actually, it’s Cosette. But you were pretty close, well done.”

Éponine pulled a face at Grantaire, but he ignored it.

“Very nice to meet you, Cosette,” he replied, half-curtseying. “I’m the fiancé: Grantaire. And these two handsome fellows,” he continued, gesturing to the other two, “Are our friends, Feuilly and Marius.”

Cosette nodded politely at Feuilly, and then turned to Marius. She offered her hand, and then he genuinely – Éponine could hardly believe her eyes here – he genuinely raised it to his lips, and kissed it. Then his face flushed brighter than Bahorel’s forbidden jeans, and Cosette giggled again, and it was truly sickening.

Completely unnoticed by either Cosette or Marius, Éponine slid away to find another glass of Cava.

 

\---

 

Grantaire, of course, did notice Éponine’s immediate disappearance, and figured that he should follow her. She was, after all, his fiancée.

He found her with M Thénardier, already bickering. Although she and her parents had agreed on a truce – to ignore the misadventures of the previous December in light of Éponine’s engagement – neither party had forgiven the other. With a sigh, Grantaire decided to interject before Éponine punched her father.

“I didn’t invite him for a reason,” Éponine was hissing, brandishing her drink threateningly.

“He’s practically family,” M Thénardier retorted, “Besides, you’ve never complained about him before. I thought you liked him!”

“I have, too. It’s not my fault that you never fucking listen.”

“You watch your mouth, you little–”

Taking that as his cue to step in, Grantaire clapped a hand on Éponine’s shoulder. “Hey, sugarplum,” he said, winking at M Thénardier. “What’s the problem?”

“This twa–”

“Whoa, Ép, let’s remember that we’ve called a truce for the party,” he hurriedly interrupted.

“He invited fucking Montparnasse.”

Grantaire turned slowly to face M Thénardier. “You twat.”

The man opened his mouth to object, but Éponine silenced him with a murderous glare. She then grabbed Grantaire’s jacket sleeve and marched off, pulling him along in her wake. He suddenly knew how a balloon must feel in the hands of a child.

Éponine dragged him to the entrance, where a collection of chairs had been placed. On one of the chairs was an enormous man, with greying hair and a stern expression. Sat opposite to him was Montparnasse. The guy just kept showing up, like a bad penny. Or like a horrible sneaky crook.

Grantaire hesitated. He didn’t want to cause a scene in front of his parents – who had arrived late, and were now standing in a corner and looking snootily down their noses at Mme Thénardier – so he couldn’t physically throw Montparnasse out of the building. Éponine paused beside him, probably having the same thought.

It looked as if the large man was talking to Montparnasse, although Grantaire couldn’t quite hear his words over the hubbub of the party. They seemed an unlikely couple, and Montparnasse looked thoroughly uncomfortable. Every so often he would twitch, as if to move away, and the other man would crack his knuckles menacingly, causing him to be still again.

Éponine started to snicker, pulling Grantaire into an alcove so as not to draw attention to their eavesdropping. “That’s Cosette’s dad, Valjean,” she told Grantaire. “He’s a right religious nut. Listen: I think he’s instructing Montparnasse on how to live a virtuous life.”

Grantaire strained his ears. He managed to catch a few snippets of the man’s tirade: “Vermin”, “Honest”, and even “Pernicious”.

“Oh my God,” Grantaire whispered back, joining her in silent laughter.

At that point, Montparnasse must have glimpsed them over Valjean’s shoulder, because he began to make desperate signals in their direction. Grantaire merrily stuck his middle finger up in reply.

“I think it’ll do him good,” Éponine said gleefully. “Let’s leave them to it.”

“Anything you say, dearest.”

As they turned away from the generous serving of just desserts, Grantaire surveyed the room: everything seemed to be going well. Courfeyrac was leading the revels on the dance-floor, spinning a stumbling Bossuet around in circles, while Musichetta danced an impressive foxtrot with Jehan; Combeferre, Joly and Enjolras were talking animatedly, Joly gesticulating wildly with the stupid cane he’d insisted on bringing; Grantaire’s parents, although still icy, had been sucked into a conversation with Éponine’s mother, and almost looked interested in what she had to say; and Marius and Cosette were _still_ making gooey eyes at one another. He hoped for Éponine’s sake that they wouldn’t end up together thanks to her, although they would have made a charming pair under any other circumstances.

“It looks like Gav’s getting along with Bahorel,” Grantaire commented.

The two aforementioned males were hunched together conspiratorially, Bahorel speaking while Gavroche listened raptly. The tableau spelled nothing but trouble.

Sure enough, as they watched, Bahorel handed the boy a bottle of what was unmistakably beer. The man was such a fucking enabler; it was beyond belief.

“Excuse me, my darling heart,” said Éponine, handing Grantaire her empty glass. “I have some ass to kick.”

While Éponine stalked away, looking for all the world like a feral cat, Grantaire decided glumly that it was about time that he faced his parents. He’d managed, so far, to get away with only a cursory greeting at the door, but he was going to have to speak to them at some point, especially if he wanted to wring money out of them for Éponine’s grandiose wedding plans. Weddings had always seemed rather frivolous to him, but Éponine was already going without the groom of her dreams – it was the least he could do to ensure that the rest of the wedding lived up to her expectations. She’d never admit to caring about such things, of course, but he’d seen the romance novels she sometimes borrowed from the library. He knew how much it secretly meant to her.

Gulping down his remaining Cava, Grantaire edged over to the corner currently occupied by his parents and Mme Thénardier.

“Ah, Grantaire. I was wondering when you’d grace us with your presence,” his mother said, by way of greeting. “Anyone would think that you were avoiding us.” She watched him accusingly.

Grantaire forced a smile. “Not at all, mum. It’s just been a little hectic, what with everyone offering their goodwill.”

Mme Thénardier, who must have had a little much to drink, threw an arm around his shoulders. “Yes, yes, we’re all very happy. About time, too – I was starting to think my Éponine would end up a spinster.”

Grantaire shifted uneasily in her grasp. “Yep, well, we didn’t want to rush anything.”

His father snorted. “You can say that again. It’s been, what, ten years?”

“We weren’t dating back then, though,” Grantaire reminded him tensely, keen to avoid too much discussion of his high school romantic exploits. He still remembered the summer spent confined to the house, after his parents discovered his first boyfriend, far too vividly for comfort.

“No,” his father agreed, the hardening of his features suggesting that he was also recalling that time.

“Have you settled on a date yet?” asked his mother, after a loaded silence.

Grantaire shook his head. “I guess in about a year,” he said. “Next September, probably. But we haven’t agreed on anything yet.”

His mother nodded. “We were just saying to Yvette here,” she said, indicating Mme Thénardier – and, God, how unsettling was it that they were on first-name terms already – before continuing, “That we are more than happy to provide financial support for the wedding, as long as we approve of the plans.” The glint in Mme Thénardier’s eyes told Grantaire that she was more than happy to accept this support.

“What exactly does that mean?” Grantaire asked suspiciously. “What kind of plans do you expect us to make?”

“Well, you do tend to get involved with these New Age types, dear,” she replied, glancing pointedly at the dance floor, where Musichetta was teaching Courfeyrac to belly dance. “Your father and I are keen for a more traditional ceremony. We wouldn’t want your, ah, friends, to influence you into anything odd. They’re a strange crowd,” she continued, shooting a dirty look at Bahorel’s dreadlocks.

“Please don’t insult my friends, mother,” Grantaire replied, trying to exercise restraint. He needed the money, not another argument.

“It’s not an insult if it’s true,” his father supplied. “Just look at that Nancy boy over there – is that really the kind of company you want to be keeping?”

Grantaire followed his line of sight, temper rising as he did so, to where Enjolras was stood.

“Don’t insult my friends,” he repeated, teeth gritted.

“Then again,” said his father, “I suppose that I shouldn’t have expected anything other from _you_.”

Grantaire saw red.

 

\---

 

An explosion of noise tore Enjolras from his fascinating discussion of minimum wage. He turned away from his conversation partner – a man name Valjean, who had an extensive knowledge of the overarching implications of poverty – to look for the source of commotion.

On the other side of the room, the corner – in which a dark-haired couple had previously been lurking standoffishly – was now a blur of limbs and shouted insults. Combeferre was physically restraining a struggling Grantaire; the couple were retreating with venomous expressions; and the large woman, whom Éponine had introduced as her mother, was shrieking at them all.

Enjolras sighed. Why did it always have to be _his_ cohort? He supposed that, as a friend and un-official leader, he should go and help Combeferre sort things out. With a reluctant glance back at Valjean, he excused himself, and began to make his way through the gaggle of people now pausing to watch the conflict.

The dark-haired couple clearly were not going to stick around to be gawped at, as they pushed past Enjolras, heading for the exit, when he arrived on the scene. For some reason, the man gave him a look of utter disdain as he passed. Enjolras was pretty used to disdainful looks, though, so he ignored him, choosing instead to locate his friends. It appeared that Grantaire had already vanished, and Combeferre was now trying to placate Mme Thénardier, who was talking loudly about ruined investments.

“He went out the back for some air,” Combeferre said, before Enjolras had so much as opened his mouth to ask. “I think that those two were insulting him, and he lost it. That’s what I gathered around the swearing, anyway.”

“I’ll go and talk to him,” Enjolras offered.

“Thanks,” said Combeferre, “He normally listens to you.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows disbelievingly, but compliantly followed the direction of Combeferre’s pointing finger.

Grantaire was smoking in the back courtyard, leaning against a wheelie bin, when Enjolras found him. He looked much calmer, but there was a faint shake in his hand as he lifted the cigarette, suggesting that he was still on edge.

“What was all that about?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire jumped slightly at the sound of his voice, and then grinned sheepishly. “Just the usual familial strife. Nothing important.”

“Those were your parents, then?” Enjolras was a little surprised. He moved to lean against the bin, next to Grantaire. “They’re not really what I would have expected.” Certainly, the woman’s black ringlets hinted at a genetic relationship, but otherwise Enjolras wouldn’t have guessed. It was bizarre that two people like that, who were so austere-looking, could raise someone as laid-back (and scruffy) as Grantaire. Then again, Enjolras was hardly a clone of his own parents.

“Yeah,” Grantaire muttered, taking a drag from his cigarette.

The two men stood in silence for a while, Enjolras watching as smoke curled from Grantaire’s mouth. There was something uncharacteristically elegant about the way that his throat arched when he threw back his head to exhale; the way his fingers held the cigarette; the way his skin glowed almost ethereally in the moonlight. Enjolras looked away. Because – really – it’s a bit weird just to stare at one’s friends.

“I knew they’d start shit,” Grantaire said, breaking the silence. “They’re never pleased with me, no matter what I do. I mean, I don’t care what they think – I’m used to people badmouthing me – but then they brought you guys into it and that’s just too far, you know? People can insult me all they like, because I kind of suck, but when they insult my friends…” He broke off in a disgruntled sigh. “It just made me so damn angry. Like, you’re amazing, and they aren’t even fit to lick the dirt off your boots, or whatever.”

Enjolras couldn’t help but smile at the words. Grantaire may have been irritatingly cynical on most subjects, but the man’s loyalty to his friends was endearingly unfaltering. Still, something about what he’d said bothered Enjolras.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Grantaire,” he said, frowning. “I’ll agree that _Les Amis_ are amazing, but you’re included in that description.”

Grantaire laughed dryly. “If you say so, man.”

“I do say so.”

“Well, when have I ever disagreed with you?”

Enjolras laughed this time, nudging his shoulder against Grantaire’s. “Exactly,” he said, “Besides, we wouldn’t want to spoil your engagement party by arguing. Congratulations, by the way. Even though you basically told us a year ago.”

“I’ve never been one to rush things,” Grantaire shrugged.

“You know,” said Enjolras, “I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it. It seems a pretty elaborate way of attaining tax breaks.” He paused for a moment. “On the other hand, it’s ridiculous that those benefits are available only to married couples. Remind me later to do something about the outdated heteronormativity of taxation.”

“People usually stop at ‘Congratulations’,” Grantaire remarked.

“Do I look like people to you?”

Grantaire half-turned to fix him with a disparaging look. “You did _not_ just quote Doctor Who at me.”

Enjolras looked innocently in the other direction, although he could still feel Grantaire watching him closely. Absurdly, the sensation sent a nervous thrill through his chest. He shivered, chalking it up to the coolness of the night air.

 

\---

 

As the party wound down, Éponine was forced to bid farewell to the guests on her own. According to Combeferre, Grantaire was still out the back with Enjolras, even though it had been about an hour since his parents left.

“Good for Grantaire, and all,” she told Combeferre, as they danced a mildly drunken waltz, “But he _is_ my fiancé. I feel like he could be slightly more present.”

“Ah, the beginning of a happy marriage,” said Combeferre, and then winced as Éponine ‘accidentally’ stood on his foot.

The dance was ended soon after, when Valjean appeared alongside them, clearing his throat. “Cosette and I should be going now,” he said, briefly glancing at the blonde-haired girl, who was _still_ talking to Marius. “We’re very grateful to have been invited, and I wish you the best for the coming wedding. Here,” he added, drawing an envelope from the pocket of his suit, “It’s not much, just a small contribution; think of it as an early wedding present. I know how expensive these things can be.”

Éponine grinned, taking the envelope. “That’s so kind, monsieur,” she said, “Thank you! It was a pleasure to see you and Cosette again.” It wasn’t exactly a lie: it was definitely a pleasure to see their money in her palm, at least.

Valjean shook hands with her, and then lead Cosette away from Marius. As they made their way to the door, the blonde kept throwing tragic glances back at the young man. From her expression, anyone would think that she was being separated from one of her limbs, rather than just some guy she’d known for a few hours. Then again, Marius wasn’t just some guy.

On the other end of the separation, Marius looked like a lost puppy.  Éponine felt a stab of something icy in her heart, but – as much as she hated the idea of him liking another person – she really hated seeing him sad. Knowing it would only result in severe emotional pain, she went over to comfort him.

After all, she could hardly resent him for having a crush when she herself was engaged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, cosette has finally made her appearance. now her presence in the character tags is actually justified; yay!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which wedding preparations begin.

It took less than a week for Éponine to take pity on the heartbroken Marius, and to yield to his requests for Cosette’s number.  It killed her to do it, but she couldn’t stand his lachrymose lamentations any longer. It was like watching a puppy begging for food.

Marius immediately phoned the girl, and – despite the fact that this may have seemed creepy to any ordinary person – Cosette was soon agreeing to meet with him for a coffee date. In terms of Éponine’s love-life, it all went downhill from there.

Not only was Éponine kicking herself over introducing her One True Love to _his_ One True Love, but she was also absolutely unable to hate Cosette. The girl was fucking perfect. It was true that they hadn’t gotten along as children – and, if she was going to be honest, this had mostly been Éponine’s fault – but Éponine was finding the company of the adult Cosette _enjoyable._ They actually had a lot in common: they both liked fashion; they both liked social activism; they both liked teasing Marius; Cosette even shared Éponine’s interest in classic rock. It was all kinds of infuriating.

In fact, what had started as third-wheeling on dates, as moral support for Marius, quickly became meeting up with Cosette independently for shopping trips and brunches and – oh, for fuck’s sake – she was suddenly Éponine’s new best friend. Which kind of sucked, because now Éponine had to hear gushing tales of the legendary romance from both parties, but it was also pretty cool. Éponine had spent most of her life hanging out with guys, and it was a nice change to have a female companion with whom to do ‘girly’ activities. This wasn’t to say that her male friends had never indulged her in the past – truthfully, Bahorel was more enthusiastic about spa days than Éponine – but it was somehow different when she did this stuff with another girl.

“Look at little Éponine, all grown up and making friends,” Grantaire ribbed, as she was leaving for a yoga class with Cosette. “I’m so proud.”

Éponine was sure to ‘accidentally’ hit him with her gym bag as she headed out the door. He could tease all he wanted, but it actually was ‘grown up’ of her. She wasn’t letting her crush on Marius turn her into a jealous bitch; perhaps this was more common decency than an achievement, but she knew that – in the same position only a few years ago – she wouldn’t have hesitated to hate the girl.

The yoga classes had been Cosette’s idea: she thought that Éponine was far too stressed, and could do with some relaxation. Éponine had yet to be convinced that yoga _was_ relaxing – some of the positions were a right nuisance to master, and she’d often end up pulling a muscle – but it was oddly fun. After the sessions, they would go out for lunch. Again, it was good to have the change from _Les Amis_ , most of whom seemed to have some blood pact with the Café Musain that prevented them from dining anywhere else.

On one such lunchtime excursion, they were eating _croque-monsieurs_ in Starbucks when the conversation fell onto weddings.

“I’ve always wanted to attend one,” Cosette was saying. “I remember seeing a wedding procession once, when I was a little girl, and thinking that it must be the most wonderful thing ever to be a bridesmaid. They were wearing these beautiful duck-egg gowns, and had flowers in their hair: I couldn’t see why anyone would want to be the bride in her boring old white dress!” She ended with a laugh, blonde ringlets bobbing around her shoulders.

Éponine smiled along with her. “Well, now you’ve got the chance. Although I don’t reckon ours will be all that glamorous – I lost a bet with Courf, so I have to let him pick out the dresses and stuff. God knows what he’ll come up with. At least I managed to keep Jehan out of it – did you see that tie-dyed abomination he was wearing the other day?”

Cosette laughed again, nodding.

“Oh Lord,” Éponine had a sudden thought. “You don’t think Courf will try to dress the bridesmaids as burlesque dancers, or something, do you? This is going to be a disaster; I can already tell.”

“Of course it won’t be,” Cosette told her, placing a hand over one of Éponine’s. “Everything will be perfect, I promise. And I also promise to intervene if I hear anything remotely suspicious from Courfeyrac.”

“You are a literal angel.”

Cosette grinned, and then moved her hand away to take a sip of her Frappuccino.

“Wait: hold it right there,” Éponine commanded, rummaging in her handbag for her phone. “I’ve just realised that this is a golden opportunity to wind up Enjolras, and Grantaire will never forgive me if I let it slide.”

Éponine pulled out the phone, aiming it at Cosette. The other girl blinked back at her, Frappuccino held half-way off the table, with the straw still in her mouth. Éponine snapped the picture, giggling. “Oh, he’s going to have a fit when I send him this. We’ll probably get the ‘Starbucks is evil’ talk next time we see him, but it’s so worth it.”

“So,” began Cosette, once their giggles had subsided, “What’s the deal with Enjolras and Grantaire? Half the time they seem like really good friends – like when they spent most of your engagement party hanging out the back – and then the rest of the time they can’t seem to stand one another.” She sipped her Frappuccino thoughtfully. “I did ask Marius, but he turned red and told me it wasn’t his place to say.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Marius,” Éponine said. “Well, there’s no harm in telling you, as everyone else knows. Grantaire’s kind of totally in love with Enj, but then Enj rejected him spectacularly, and now–”

She was interrupted by Cosette choking on her drink. “You – gosh – how can you say that so casually?” she finally managed. “You just told me that your fiancé is in love with another person – with a _man_ – and you didn’t even bat an eyelid. What the hell?”

“Oh,” said Éponine, remembering too late that Cosette had believed the engagement to be one-hundred-percent normal. Oops. “I completely forgot that you didn’t know! Um, yeah, so Grantaire and I aren’t, like, a couple. We’ve been best friends forever, but nothing more, as he’s not really my type and is also hella gay. Fuck, this is going to take a lot of explaining – I’m probably not making much sense.”

Cosette shook her head slowly. “I think I get it so far. You’re pretending to be a couple, okay. Actually, that explains why you two aren’t into public displays of affection, or anything. I guess the next question is: why are you pretending to be a couple?”

Taking a quick drink of coffee to steel herself, Éponine launched into the now-tired explanation, tactfully omitting her own feelings for Marius. She couldn’t imagine Cosette fully approving of the Pact, but hopefully the blonde would continue to go along with it. Éponine didn’t think she could face the wedding planning without _someone_ sane to help her.

“It sounds more like a business contract than a marriage,” Cosette observed, when Éponine had finished.

“I wouldn’t quite put it like that, but yeah, sure. We just thought: if the legal system is going to royally screw us over most of the time, it seems our prerogative to screw it right back.”

Cosette made a humming noise, somewhere between thoughtful and disapproving. “And you’re really okay with it? What about waiting for true love?”

“You know, that’s exactly what Marius said,” Éponine laughed. “You really are perfect for each other. But that ain’t going to happen for me, so what’s the use in waiting around? As for Grantaire, he’s pretty sure that he’s found his ‘true love’, and look what that’s got him. Zilch. Romance is far more trouble than it’s worth.”

“I’m not sure that I agree,” said Cosette (and of course she wouldn’t, given her fairy-tale-in-progress), “But it’s your decision. I suppose that it’s a good idea, in its own way. And, like I said, I _have_ always wanted to go to a wedding…”

Éponine beamed in response. “Exactly – you wouldn’t want to miss out on being a bridesmaid, would you?”

Cosette’s face lit up entirely. “You want me to be a bridesmaid? Really?”

“Of course, you ninny.”

With a delighted squeak, Cosette reached across the table to pull Éponine into a hug, only narrowly avoiding sending their meals to the floor.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she chanted, squeezing tightly. “You’re the absolute best!”

“I know,” Éponine replied.

 

\---

 

It was a good job that Cosette was still on-board, because the wedding planning turned out to be a complete headache for both Éponine and Grantaire. There was just so much to consider – Grantaire had never appreciated the effort that went into marriage, nor the sheer price of it all. Even with their friends helping out wherever possible, the projected cost was far beyond what Grantaire and Éponine could afford with their combined pay-checks.

In the end, Grantaire was forced to make sycophantic apologies to his parents in exchange for their money. Luckily, their desire to see him settled down with a wife, his chances of ‘scandal’ drastically reduced, outweighed their pride. However, Grantaire was able to secure their funding only with the condition that they had ultimate powers of veto over the plans. It felt like selling his soul, but what’s autonomy in the face of economy?

The first hurdle to overcome was the date. Grantaire and Éponine had originally decided on September – that being the anniversary of their Pact – but their relatives had other ideas.

“How about a nice Christmas wedding?” was the suggestion of Éponine’s mother, over the phone.

“Well,” said Grantaire, “As lovely as I’m sure that would be, Christmas is only, like, two months away. It’s rather soon, don’t you think? Ép and I were keen on waiting a bit longer.”

“Waiting for what?” Mme Thénardier demanded.

Grantaire didn’t have a response. What _were_ they waiting for? The Pact had been made with an arbitrary deadline of two years, simply because that was the number which had been plucked from the ether by their drunken minds. There was no reason for two years to be the chosen value; it could just as well have been one year, or three years, or ten years. In fact, there had only ever been a waiting period because they had still held hope for their romantic endeavours. Now, the object of Éponine’s affections was neck-deep in a relationship taken straight from a Disney movie, and Grantaire’s prospects looked even bleaker.

There wasn’t anything for which to wait.

When he broached the subject with Éponine, she seemed to agree.

“Yeah, mum wants us to get it over with as quickly as possible,” she said. “I think it’s mainly since she found out how rich your parents are – us getting married is like an investment to her, because of your future inheritance. She basically wants me to seal the contract before you can change your mind.”

Grantaire nodded glumly. “I can believe that.”

“What about your parents, have they said anything?”

He shrugged. “They also want me tied down as quickly as possible. They’ve been living in fear of me disgracing them for so long, they just want to rest easy in the knowledge that I’m attached to a nice, respectable girl, and not out taking part in homosexual orgies. Or whatever it is they imagine of me.”

“What?” said Éponine, eyes widening in mock-distress. “You mean to tell me that our married life _won’t_ involve homosexual orgies?”

“I’m sorry, Ép, but it’s common knowledge that a couple become literal paragons of virtue after signing the nuptial papers.”

“God fucking damn it,” she said, snapping her fingers like a foiled Scooby Doo villain.

“Joking aside,” Grantaire pressed, “Shall we move the date forwards? Not to Christmas, obviously, but something like April? Then it’d be a spring wedding, and all that jazz.”

Éponine considered this for a few seconds, and then nodded. “Sure. Like you said: what’s there to wait for?”

 

\---

 

Having a concrete date for the wedding meant that everything suddenly felt urgent. Cosette helped Éponine write up a schedule, and everyone was soon put to work on their individual contributions. Feuilly had offered to figure out the budgeting for them (which was a real relief, because Grantaire was notoriously abysmal at managing money, and Éponine loathed maths); Combeferre was using his network of connections to get them a venue and transport; Jehan and Bahorel were on decorations; Musichetta and Joly were organising the catering; Bossuet was finding a DJ; Courfeyrac’s free reign on outfits was now tempered by Cosette; Marius was in charge of printing the wedding booklets; even Enjolras was helping out, although his support mainly consisted of terrifying various companies into doing whatever Éponine wanted. Éponine mentally thanked the universe for providing her with such a resourceful group of friends.

On the other hand, the tight-knit quality of _Les Amis_ was making it impossible to choose a best man.

“I need to decide,” Grantaire said, flopping down next to Éponine on her bed.

She groaned, rolling over to make room for him, but determinedly not opening her eyes. They’d been reprising this conversation for days now, and it was getting them nowhere. “I’m still sleeping,” she said to her pillow.

“No you’re not: you’re waking up, and helping me pick a best man. If I leave it any longer it’ll cause problems – I need one _now_.”

“Grantaire, it is a Sunday morning, and I am still sleeping.”

He ignored her, and continued speaking. “I mean, he’s meant to plan the stag do, so it’s important that he’s forewarned. Plus, my parents keep asking me who it is, and they’re starting to get antsy. They’ll pick one of my horrible cousins to do it if I don’t act soon.” He paused to nuzzle her shoulder, whining. “Please help me.”

“I hate you.”

“Pleeease?”

Éponine groaned again, and then begrudgingly propped herself up to face him. “Just choose Courf – you know he’ll end up commandeering the stag do anyway.”

“But if I choose him then he’ll let it get to his head. Besides, the best man has to look after the rings on the big day. Are we really going to trust Courfeyrac with our wedding rings? Really?”

“Fair point. What about Bahorel?”

Grantaire snorted. “That’s an even worse suggestion. Remember that the best man’s speech needs to be suitable for children and my parents.”

“Joly, then?”

“Maybe. But it feels kind of wrong to ask him without Bossuet. They’re like a package deal. And I can’t have two best men.”

Éponine shifted to lie on her back, staring up at the ceiling for inspiration. “So, what you need is someone reliable, who’s good at organising, who we both trust, and who can write a killer speech without falling into innuendo?”

“Yep.”

She could think of one person who fitted that description perfectly, but…

“Oh no,” said Grantaire, obviously noticing her expression. “No. I can see what you’re thinking, and no.”

“But he’s exactly what I just described,” she reasoned.

“I am not asking Enjolras to be my best man.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Grantaire rolled off her bed, sighing heavily. “I hate you.”

 

\---

 

Most people, like Éponine, prefer to spend their Sunday mornings in bed, dozing for hours before facing the world. Some people, like Cosette, go to church every Sunday with their family. Others, like Feuilly, work on Sundays, because – hey – there are bills to be paid. Enjolras was in none of these groups.

By the time Grantaire tracked him down, Enjolras had already been at the library for three hours, where he was perusing the section dedicated to French political history. The evening before, he had somehow ended up debating Bonaparte with Marius, and there had been a disagreement over the chronology of events. Not one to let such things lie, Enjolras had decided to fact-check some of his points, if only to be assured that Marius was wrong and he was right.

Enjolras was just reading a particularly interesting passage about censorship – perfect: Marius would have a hard time arguing in favour of _that_ – when he noticed that someone was stood over him. He looked up quickly, and was greeted with the familiar sight of Grantaire.

“Oh, hello,” he said. He wouldn’t have imagined Grantaire to be the type to visit libraries on a Sunday morning (or even to be awake on a Sunday morning, for that matter), but nevertheless here he was.

“Hi,” said Grantaire. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Man, do you never check your texts?”

“It’s a library,” Enjolras pointed out. “You’re meant to turn your phone off.”

Grantaire sat in the chair across from him, smirking. “No one actually does that, though. Not even Jehan, and he’s a fucking librarian. He’s the one who told me you were here, by the way.”

“Right,” said Enjolras, wondering why Grantaire had been looking for him in the first place.

“Frankly, I’m surprised you would listen to such rules. Aren’t you meant to be all into non-conformity and anarchy and shit?”

“Are you actually here for a reason?” Enjolras asked, pretending not to hear the gibe.

“Oh, yeah. I have something to ask you.”

“Mm hmm,” Enjolras said, more than a little suspicious.

“You can totally say ‘no’ if you don’t want to, of course, but I just thought I’d ask,” Grantaire began, doing nothing to reassure him.

Enjolras felt a brief jitter of apprehension, as he wondered if Grantaire was trying to ask him out again – which, yeah, he really hoped wasn’t the case.  Seeing Grantaire the last time, looking so hurt because of him, had been bad enough as it was; Enjolras had no interest in repeating the experience.

“Do you want to be my best man?”

Every time Enjolras thought that he had a handle on predicting Grantaire, the cynic came up with things like this. Why on earth would Grantaire want him to be the best man? True, Enjolras was well-organised and authoritative, but he wasn’t the first person that you’d ask to arrange a stag night. He’d never even been on a stag night. He was flattered to be chosen, of course: it was wonderful that Grantaire valued his friendship enough to want his help, even after their history of mutual antagonism; but the main emotion was ‘bemused’.

“Uh, you don’t have to,” said Grantaire, evidently noticing his expression.

“No, no, I’d love to,” Enjolras told him hurriedly. “I wasn’t expecting you to pick me, that’s all. But certainly, I will.”

Grantaire gave him a relieved smile. “Okay, thank God, because otherwise I was going to have to ask Courf, and can you imagine what that would do to his ego?”

Enjolras chuckled in agreement. “I see your point.”

“Okay,” Grantaire repeated, half-standing. “I’ll leave you to… Actually, what _are_ you doing here? It’s a Sunday morning and you’re reading books on–” he paused, turning his head to read the cover of the tome next to Enjolras’ elbow. “On Napoleonic France. I should have known. Is ‘Ferre here, too?”

“Yes. I think he’s over in the entomology section.”

Grantaire made a noise of disgust. “You guys are ridiculous. Anyway, this place is only open for a half-day on Sunday, right? Why don’t you leave that thrilling textbook behind, and we can all go get lunch. Jehan’ll be off, too, after all.”

Enjolras thought for a moment, torn between reading and sustenance.

“We can go to that dumb vegan place you like.”

Won over, Enjolras closed the book. Somehow, Grantaire always knew how to persuade him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow an enjolras stag do that sounds like a whole bundle of laughs. what are they going to do for it: build a wall of furniture and get shot? we'll just have to wait and see
> 
> also, i have about zero idea of what goes into planning a wedding. my knowledge mainly comes from episodes of don't tell the bride. so i apologise for any inaccuracies and/or omissions


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a New Year's party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is rather self-indulgently heavy on courfeyrac, and for that i apologise  
> unless you like reading about courfeyrac, that is. in that case, i do not need to apologise

“Hey, what are you doing for New Year’s?”

Éponine winced, holding the phone further from her ear to avoid being deafened. Where most people have a ‘phone voice’ – that is to say, a hushed, more polite version of their normal manner of speaking – Courfeyrac had something best described as a ‘megaphone voice’.

“Hello to you, too, Courf,” she replied. “I currently have nothing planned, but I’ve got a nasty inkling that you’re about to tell me exactly what I’m doing for New Year’s.”

“You are correct.”

“Go on then,” she asked warily, “What’s the plan?”

“Sleep over!” was the excited response.

“If you’re inviting me for another one of those naked slumber parties where I’m the only guest, the answer is ‘no’.”

“Hey! I would never try that more than once,” Courfeyrac objected, the pout clear in his words. “I promise that this is just a regular sleepover, and Marius is hosting too. Everyone’s coming. Well, I’ve only asked Marius so far, and he didn’t have a choice because he lives here, but everyone else _will_ be coming if they value my friendship.”

“Is that meant to be a threat?” she asked.

“Not unless you want it to be. If you know what I’m saying.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying, and I don’t think that I want to.”

Courfeyrac made a wounded noise across the line. “You’re so mean. Anyway, are you down?”

“Against my better judgement, I suppose so.”

“Great!” he cried. “Okay, tell R that he’s coming, too.”

The line cut off, letting Éponine know that he’d hung up on her. She sighed, calling up her phone’s calendar to enter a reminder about it. She had a feeling that she’d live to regret this.

 

\---

 

At 5PM on New Year’s Eve, Cosette arrived at the door to the apartment shared by Marius and Courfeyrac, weighed down by several bags of food and a large ‘Happy New Year’ banner that she’d made herself. She became a little stuck, however, when she realised that she had somehow to press the doorbell, despite her hands being completely full.

She squinted at it angrily, hoping that it might be scared into ringing. No such luck: it stared back at her, as silent as ever. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wondering if Marius might just open the door eventually, if only to see where she’d gotten to. He probably would – she could just wait until then. On the other hand, the bags were really heavy, and her arms were beginning to go funny.

In the end, she resorted to head-butting the doorbell. It was completely undignified, but it wasn’t like anyone was watching.

Marius opened the door almost instantaneously, as if he’d been waiting right on the other side for hours. Perhaps he had been – he was ridiculously sweet like that.

“Oh, let me take that,” he said, hoisting a few of the bags from her grip, and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“My hero,” Cosette replied, pretending to swoon and nearly dropping the banner.

“Is that Cosette at the door?” came Courfeyrac’s voice from inside the apartment. “Tell her she’s late, and therefore I am firing her. You really can’t get the staff these days.”

“I will do no such thing,” Marius called back, hefting his bags into the hallway. “Thanks for picking this up,” he told her, as she followed him indoors. “We were cleaning up a bit, and then we just got so distracted that we forgot.”

“It’s no problem,” Cosette assured him, “What distracted you?”

Marius flushed slightly, and didn’t reply, but the answer soon became clear when she entered the living room. All of the furniture had been pushed to the sides, and the floor was covered with what looked like playing cards. _No, that’s not what they are_ , she thought, squatting down to examine them. Where one would ordinarily expect to find numbers and suits, the card faces displayed little illustrations, with writing beneath them.

“They’re, uh, Yu-gi-oh cards,” said Courfeyrac. “We found them under the sofa, and one thing led to another…”

Cosette shook her head slowly. “How are you two allowed to be adults?”

“I ask myself that every day,” said Courfeyrac.

Marius knelt down beside her, and started gathering the cards into a pile. “Do you see now why I asked you to come over early to help us get ready?”

Cosette just laughed, and kissed him on the cheek.

Under her watchful eye, they managed to pack the cards away without getting too side-tracked, although Courfeyrac did insist on showing her every time he found a ‘shiny’ one. Apparently they were a big deal, although Cosette wasn’t sure why. Eventually, the room was cleared of cards – shiny or otherwise – and they got to setting out food and drinks, and hanging the banner.

It was all very exciting – Cosette had never helped to host a party before, unless her father’s charity functions counted. As the main guests had often been nuns, they probably didn’t. She was so glad to be a part of a big group of friends like _Les Amis_ , all of whom had accepted her warmly into their circle. She hadn’t had many friends as a child, initially because of her scruffy appearance, and later because she and her father had moved around a lot. It had been a real bolt from the blue when Éponine invited her to the engagement party, especially since Cosette had always thought that the other girl hated her. She’d even been slightly suspicious, thinking that maybe Éponine had invited her to gloat, like the bitchier characters in soaps sometimes did. She couldn’t have been more wrong, as it turned out.

“What’s got you smiling?” asked Marius, handing her a bowl of Doritos.

“I’m just thinking about how lucky I am,” she said.

“No; I’m the lucky one,” said Marius, grinning back. “And Courfeyrac, don’t think that I can’t see you pretending to gag over there.”

Cosette spun on her foot, fixing the wild-haired man with a fearsome stare, before bursting into laughter. They were all lucky, really.

 

\---

 

When Grantaire and Éponine arrived, the apartment was beautifully spotless. Grantaire really had to commend Cosette. He’d seen the normal state of Marius and Courfeyrac’s living quarters – the girl must have had quite a job whipping everything into shape.

“Come in, come in,” said Cosette, who seemed to be on door-answering duty. It was almost as if she already lived there, Grantaire thought, she was already so comfortable treating his apartment as her own. How adorable.

When they entered the living room, Courfeyrac greeted them with an unearthly screech of joy. Grantaire thought the enthusiasm was completely un-necessary, as they’d seen each other that very morning, but it was nice to know that his presence was appreciated.

“You’re here!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, pulling both Grantaire and Éponine into a crushing hug. “You’re the last ones to arrive, you layabouts.” He pulled back to wag a finger at them, although he didn’t altogether relinquish his hold. “Now we can finally get this party started. Help yourself to drinks and stuff – everything’s up for grabs, except for the ones in the fridge. Those are Bahorel’s special ‘midnight cocktails’, which we are apparently drinking in the place of champagne later tonight.”

“Sounds thrilling,” said Grantaire, wriggling to escape Courfeyrac’s grasp.

Once Grantaire and Éponine had taken their places on the living room carpet, drinks in hand, Courfeyrac stepped up onto a foot-rest and cleared his throat. Grantaire wondered how much he’d had to drink already.

“It’s time for party games,” Courfeyrac announced, surveying them from his tiny stage.

Everyone groaned: Courfeyrac’s party games inevitably involved either nudity, embarrassment, or a combination of the two.

“Is anyone up for spin the bottle?”

“No,” said Éponine. “No snogging until midnight – that’s, like, a rule of New Year’s.”

“So there’s no chance of a quick fiddle in the kitchen?” asked Courfeyrac, winking at her. She flipped him off in response, but laughed good-naturedly.

“Why don’t we play poker?” asked Combeferre, who Grantaire recalled had the best poker face in the room. No wonder he was suggesting it – the guy walked away from every match with his pockets full of cash.

“Strip poker?” said Courfeyrac hopefully. When no one replied, he tried again: “Strip chess? Strip Mario Kart?”

“I’m not removing any clothes in this weather,” said Joly, with a frown. “I already have a cold as it is; I’m not going to exacerbate it.”

“Exacerbate, hey?” said Courfeyrac, wriggling his eyebrows.

“That’s not a dirty word, Courf,” said Jehan. “It just means ‘making things worse’. Actually, it’s a rather fitting word for you.”

Courfeyrac ignored him. “Oh! How about strip Yu-gi-oh?”

They ended up playing Twister, as this seemed a reasonable compromise between Joly’s desire to remain clothed, and Courfeyrac’s desire to touch everyone as inappropriately as possible before the year ended.

 

\---

 

“Fifteen minutes to midnight!” Cosette declared, handing Éponine one of Bahorel’s ‘midnight cocktails’.

Éponine took it gingerly, observing the murky orange hue, and strange floating particles of something green, with distaste. She felt queasy just looking at it. “Uh, do we have to drink these?”

“I made them specially,” Bahorel called from where he was arm-wrestling Jehan, and then swore loudly as the other man overpowered him. “Fuck! I swear you’re cheating. Best of, what is it now, thirteen?”

“Just admit your defeat, bro,” said Feuilly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Éponine rolled her eyes at the scene, and shook the glass slightly to see if it might make the drink look more appetising. It didn’t.

“Are we doing midnight kisses?” asked Courfeyrac brightly, barrelling into the room with a bright pink cake. The words ‘ _Bonne Année, Bonne Santé!_ ’ were piped elegantly across the top, and little fireworks made out of candy were scattered around the edge – Éponine presumed that it was the work of Combeferre. He was the only person who’d take the time to decorate a cake so carefully, even when it was destined only to be eaten by a group of drunken twenty-somethings.

“We are,” said Marius dreamily, looping an arm around Cosette. She gazed up at him with an expression of complete adoration.

Before Éponine could do something stupid, like claw her own eyes out, Grantaire was next to her. He placed an arm around her waist in an imitation of Marius. “Oh, us too. Isn’t that right, honey-bear?”

Éponine snorted. “I will kiss literally anyone but Courf.”

“If that’s meant to upset me,” said Courfeyrac, placing the cake on a side-table, “Then you’ve failed. For your information, I wasn’t even going to ask to kiss you anyway.”

“You’ve been chasing me around with a piece of mistletoe all evening,” she pointed out.

“Correction: I’ve been chasing _everyone_ around with a piece of mistletoe all evening. So don’t flatter yourself, sunshine. Anyway – for your information – I will be kissing ‘Ferre at midnight.”

“No,” said Combeferre.

“In that case, I will be kissing Bossuet at midnight.”

“I am not being your third choice!” said Bossuet indignantly. “Besides, I’m kissing Musichetta.”

“Isn’t Joly kissing Musichetta?” asked Marius, looking to where Joly and his girlfriend were cuddling on the sofa.

“They can both kiss me,” said Musichetta, winking at Marius.

Courfeyrac cast around the room. “Feuilly?”

“I already agreed to an eskimo kiss with Bahorel. Sorry.”

“Jehan?”

Jehan considered the offer for a few seconds, one finger theatrically tapping at his chin. “You can kiss me on the cheek,” he said, at long last.

Courfeyrac fist-pumped wildly, and then stuck his tongue out at Éponine. She just shrugged, indicating that she wasn’t at all impressed.

“And which lucky person will be on the receiving end of a smooch from our resident sourpuss?” asked Éponine, indicating Enjolras, who looked thoroughly bored with the conversation.

“I’m not kissing anyone,” he said resolutely.

“You could kiss ‘Ferre,” Grantaire suggested. Combeferre’s resulting grimace was priceless.

“I just told you that it’s not going to happen,” said Enjolras. “Do you listen to anything I say?”

“Never.”

Enjolras laughed, shaking his head. “No, I suppose not.”

“Five minutes!” crowed Bahorel, picking up his own glass. “And I will be excruciatingly offended if anyone refuses to drink their cocktail after I spent so long on them.”

Joly sniffed his drink nervously. “Why does this smell of cough syrup?”

Bahorel shushed him cheerfully, reaching for the TV remote, and calling the screen into life.

The TV was soon displaying images of the New Year’s countdown, and everyone gathered around it to view the shots of people celebrating all over France. Éponine personally thought that it was all a bit cheesy. But maybe that was the point.

 

\---

 

As the countdown began, Enjolras moved to stand with Combeferre, who was the only other person to refrain from the tradition of kissing at midnight. It sounded like a rather stupid tradition, to Enjolras, and he couldn’t begin to imagine the cultural origin. Perhaps it was some form of superstition, in which not being kissed was thought to result in a year of loneliness. Would it be rude to Google for the answer?

His thoughts were interrupted by a resounding chorus of “Happy New Year!” and the crash of televised fireworks.

For the next few seconds, the room was uncomfortably full of kissing people. Enjolras wasn’t sure where to look: no matter where he turned, his eyes found something that he really didn’t want to see.

Unbidden, his gaze settled on Grantaire and Éponine, who were probably a very cute couple when considered objectively. Éponine was on her tiptoes, one hand flung around Grantaire’s neck, and Grantaire’s muscular arms were curved around her lower back, almost protectively. Even though it was only a close-mouthed, friendly kiss, there was something obviously intimate about it – maybe because of the closeness of their relationship.

Subjectively, something about the tableau bothered Enjolras. He couldn’t quite place what it was, but it made his skin crawl. As Grantaire and Éponine broke apart, resting their foreheads together and giggling, Enjolras felt a sudden, inexplicable pang of something in his chest. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have identified the sensation as jealousy. But that didn’t make any sense. Why would he be jealous of his two friends kissing at midnight? If he’d wanted a midnight kiss, he could have asked Combeferre, after all.

He shook himself, driving the feeling out, and joined everyone in the New Year’s toast.

This was directly followed by the sound of thirteen people spitting out their drinks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to be continued. i mean, obviously it will be continued, because that's kind of the idea of a multi-chapter fic, but this particular section of the story is not yet over. there will be more on the new year's party, is what i'm saying. there was probably a more coherent way to phrase that.
> 
> also (although i think it's a pretty obvious translation, but you never know), "bonne année, bonne santé" means something along the lines of "happy new year, and good health"


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is still a New Year's party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your continued support you guys are all kinds of cool xoxoxo

How does a group of social activists, who spend most of their free time discussing serious political issues, start a new year? Apparently, by bickering over what film to watch.

Enjolras hadn’t thought that the decision would be such an issue – most of them were too drunk to properly follow a plot-line, and they’d all be asleep long before the end credits, so surely it was all the same in the end? His naïve ideas were soon corrected by Bossuet.

“Of course it’s an issue: it’ll be the first movie we watch this entire year. We can’t start the year off with a crappy movie, can we?”

It turned out that the rest of _Les Amis_ were of the same mind on the subject. What they could not agree on, however, was everything else.

“Something with superheroes,” insisted Bahorel, for the umpteenth time. “I’m not watching any of those soppy-ass rom-coms that the rest of you losers like. I’m looking at you, Marius.”

Marius dropped the DVD case for _Shakespeare in Love_ , looking pained.

“I’ve never liked superhero films,” Musichetta commented. “They’re always far too male-dominated; it just gets so repetitive.”

“Damned patriarchy,” said Éponine, shaking her fist at the stack of Batman DVDs. “And Enjolras, I can see you twitching to give a lecture on third-wave feminism, or whatever, but right now we are picking a movie, not leading the revolution.”

Enjolras scowled at her. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” he lied. “What about _Legally Blonde_?”

Courfeyrac groaned melodramatically. “You choose that literally every time.”

“It’s a good movie,” Enjolras said defensively. It was hardly his fault if the DVD collection of the Marius-Courfeyrac household was severely lacking in anything else worth watching. Most of the films were Disney, for Christ’s sake.

“So is _High School Musical_ ,” Courfeyrac countered, “And you never let us watch that.”

“If you make us watch _High School Musical_ , I will genuinely go home,” said Grantaire. For once, Enjolras found himself agreeing with the man.

A short argument about Zac Efron ensued, but Enjolras automatically tuned it out. Arguments about Zac Efron were a frequent occurrence when you were friends with Courfeyrac. Unfortunately.

“It’s got to be Harry Potter,” Combeferre finally interjected, disrupting the developing feud.

The suggestion was met with unanimous assent, much to Enjolras’ relief. As much as he loved debating, it was undeniably more fun when your opponents weren’t completely sloshed, and building their arguments based on an actor’s ‘screwability’. Enjolras suspected that ‘screwability’ wasn’t even a real word.

“Do we have popcorn?” asked Marius, as he battled ineffectually with the DVD player’s SCART cables.

Courfeyrac dutifully went to check the cupboards, but returned empty-handed. “Sorry, guys, it looks like we’re fresh out.”

“But we can’t watch Harry Potter without popcorn,” said Joly, who was arranging himself at the recommended distance of two-point-one metres from the TV screen. “It’s sacrilegious.”

“It’s out of my hands, Joll,” Courfeyrac shrugged. “There aren’t going to be any shops open right now.”

Éponine sighed heavily. “If it’s that important, I think R and I have some back home. It’s only a five minute walk, so…”

Joly cheered sleepily.

“But I’m not going to fetch it,” Éponine added. “I’ve drunk, like, my own body weight in cider, and I can hardly walk in these heels when sober. You’ll have to ask Grantaire really nicely.”

Grantaire stood up unsteadily, from where he’d been stretched out on the floor, and gave a shaky bow in the direction of Joly. “I am at your service, milord.” Given his slight swaying, Enjolras couldn’t imagine Grantaire was capable of walking in a straight line at that moment, let alone finding his way home.

“Wait a minute,” said Combeferre, who must have been having the same thought. “You’re hardly sober yourself. I don’t think that we can, in good conscious, send you out into the streets alone. Someone will have to go with you.”

“Turn around, touch the ground, bagsy not me!” was Courfeyrac’s instant reaction.

The rest of the group swiftly followed suit, with the exception of Enjolras – because, honestly, they weren’t in primary school any longer.

“Looks like it’s up to Enj,” said Bossuet, sounding relieved that – for once – he wasn’t last.

“I wasn’t playing,” Enjolras replied sternly.

“You can’t not play,” said Grantaire, who was now struggling into a forest-green anorak. “Rules is rules.”

“It should be you, anyway,” said Marius. “You _are_ his best man.”

“I don’t think the duties of best man extend to all aspects of life, sweetie,” Cosette told him, with a gentle laugh.

“No, no, I’ll do it,” said Enjolras, getting up from the floor. He was definitely the least inebriated of the group, so it made sense for him to be on tipsy-Grantaire-sitting duty. “I’d rather he didn’t get lost, or killed. Or both.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me,” Grantaire observed, flashing a winning grin that sent a warm sensation through Enjolras’ midriff. He smiled back.

 

\---

 

Grantaire was able to find plenty of microwave popcorn in his and Éponine’s kitchen – actually, microwave popcorn was one of the few foods that they did have. They really needed to go shopping.

“Voila,” he exclaimed, waving the cardboard box around like a trophy. “Grantaire to the rescue!”

“Very good,” said Enjolras, who had plastered himself to the radiator the moment they got through the door: it appeared that Apollo was not immune to the bodily discomforts associated with winter weather, after all. It also appeared that Apollo had not thought to bring a coat. Which was pretty stupid, given that the temperature outside was flirting with the freezing point. Maybe Grantaire needed to re-think his nickname for Enjolras, because no god would be that foolishly unprepared.

“Indeed,” Grantaire agreed. “So: ready to head back out?”

Enjolras looked regretfully at the radiator. “I suppose so. It’s rather cold, isn’t it?”

“Enj, it’s mid-winter. Also, that radiator isn’t even on. You think Ép and I would pay to heat the apartment when we’re out?”

“Oh,” said Enjolras glumly.

“It’s your own fault for dressing in – what is that?” he narrowed his eyes at Enjolras’ red shirt, trying to identify the fabric. “One layer of cotton? I can’t believe Combeferre actually let you leave the house wearing that.”

“I wasn’t intending to go outside,” Enjolras reasoned. “But then _someone_ needed assistance getting popcorn.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “And _someone_ refused to play bagsy, so...”

Enjolras glowered at him, but the effect was ruined by a sneeze. He was beginning to look a little blue around the edges.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake: I’ll lend you a coat,” said Grantaire, shaking his head. “You’re lucky that I’m so benevolent, or you’d probably die of hypothermia.”

The other man begrudgingly followed him back into the hallway, where a row of hooks held Grantaire and Éponine’s outdoor-wear collection. Grantaire considered offering him Éponine’s enormous pink, fluffy coat – a birthday gift from her mother – but then thought better of it. He did want Enjolras to wear the thing, after all. In the end, he chose a khaki parka jacket, because even Enjolras couldn’t object to that.

Enjolras took it gratefully, shrugging it on with a roll of his shoulders that totally didn’t give Grantaire any vivid mental images.

Because their two builds were pretty different, the jacket didn’t fit Enjolras properly; it was too wide in the shoulders, and too short in the torso, but he still made it look good because he was fucking Enjolras, for God’s sake. Grantaire tried not to fixate on the fact that the guy was now wearing his clothes. Well, one item of his clothing. It certainly did _not_ turn him on. At all.

He looked away from where the blonde was now fumbling at the zip, not wanting to be creepy.

“Uh,” said Enjolras, after a few moments filled with only the metallic jingling of the zip. “You couldn’t help me to do this up, could you? My fingers are sort of stiff.”

_Okay, this is just unfair_.

Grantaire made a big show of looking put-out, tucking the box of popcorn under one arm to free his hands. He shifted to stand facing Enjolras, attempting not to notice his body heat and soft breath and perfect hair and just ugh. Grantaire grasped the two sides of the jacket gingerly (he was scared of doing something incredibly foolish, like running his fingers over Enjolras’ chest, or through his hair, or down his… _Focus, Grantaire_ ), and just about managed to zip them together, despite his unsteady hands. The unsteadiness was definitely caused by the alcohol, and not by his proximity to Enjolras. Because how pathetic would that be otherwise?

Grantaire cleared his throat, which was suddenly very dry, and relinquished his hold on the jacket. “There you go. All ready for the big outdoors.”

“Thanks,” said Enjolras, who already looked warmer – there was even some colour in his cheeks now.

Grantaire waved one hand in a ‘don’t mention it’ gesture, nearly dropping the popcorn that he’d somehow forgotten he was holding. “Let’s just get back to the others,” he said.

Outside, small flakes of sleet were beginning to fall from the night sky, spiralling prettily in the shafts thrown down by street-lights. A thin layer of frost had formed over the ledges of buildings and the road surface, making everything glitter slightly. Grantaire would totally have appreciated the beauty of the scene more if it wasn’t so fucking freezing.

“So,” he said, as they set out in the direction of Courfeyrac and Marius’ place. “Is your New Year’s resolution to bring a coat when we’re forecast cold weather?”

Enjolras just laughed, his breath clouding outwards.

“Or are you so perfect that there’s no room for improvement?” Grantaire joked, and – oh fuck – had he honestly just called Enjolras perfect to his face? He really needed to think before he spoke.

“I’ve never seen the point in making New Year’s resolutions,” said Enjolras, not reacting to the compliment (thank God). “If you want to change something about your life, you should just do it. Why wait for a specific date?”

“It’s meant to be poetic,” said Grantaire, shaking his head in amusement. “New year, new start. A rebirth, if you will.”

“If I lived my life by poetry then I would be far less like myself and far more like Prouvaire.”

Grantaire considered this. “Okay, one Jehan is enough for the world. I’ll give you that.”

“What about you?”

“Just the usual: stop smoking, cut down on the booze, all that unimaginative stuff. Maybe this will be the year I succeed,” he said, and then laughed dryly. “Or not – I’m hardly the type for convictions, am I?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Enjolras. “I think you’re capable of doing anything you want, if you put your mind to it.”

Grantaire stopped in his tracks, sure that he must have misheard. If Grantaire wasn’t one for convictions, Enjolras certainly wasn’t one for casual flattery.

“Don’t look so surprised: I _can_ say nice things, you know,” said Enjolras, turning to face him properly.

“I think hell’s frozen over.”

“No; just Paris,” Enjolras smiled. “I do mean it, though.”

Grantaire searched the blonde’s face, trying to find a hint of a joke. But he looked entirely sincere – even fiercely so – all righteous determination and unfaltering stare.

A single flake of sleet (or was it snow at this point? Grantaire didn’t know the distinction) fluttered to land on Enjolras’ cheek, just below the shadow cast by his eyelashes. Grantaire resisted the urge to reach up and brush it away. Or kiss it away. Yeah, that would definitely be inappropriate.

Enjolras’ gaze drifted up from Grantaire’s eyes. “You’re getting sleet in your hair,” he said, half-gesturing to Grantaire’s head. “You really should use your hood.” He lifted his hands; hesitated, as if unsure; and then reached his arms over either side of Grantaire’s shoulders. Grantaire froze, barely breathing, as Enjolras pulled the hood up for him. What the fuck was going on?

Even more bizarrely, Enjolras didn’t step away immediately afterwards. His hands lingered on either side of Grantaire’s face, still loosely holding onto the fabric.

“Um, thanks,” Grantaire breathed, hardly daring to move.

And then – holy fucking mother of God – Enjolras was _kissing him_ , his mouth a sudden, warm contrast to the frigid night air, his palms coming to rest against Grantaire’s cheeks. Grantaire disregarded the giddiness that immediately hit him, forgot the chilling sleet that was thickening around them, ignored the voice in the back of his mind that told him that this was all a hallucination, and kissed Enjolras back, moving his lips against the other man’s and letting his eyes fall shut. It was everything he had ever imagined, and then a fuck-load more besides. He could hear fireworks.

No, wait: those were literal fireworks, being set off in celebration of the new year.

The loud noises and brilliant lights seemed to bring Enjolras to his senses; he pulled away, leaping backwards as if Grantaire had electrocuted him.

“Shit,” said Enjolras, hands shooting up to cover his face. “Shit, shit, _shit_! I’m so sorry I don’t know what– I didn’t want to– I… fuck, I don’t know why I did that. I’m sorry.” He looked confused, and absolutely horrified.

Grantaire felt the giddiness rush out of him, replaced by a numb weight in his stomach. Obviously, some interfering deity was restoring the natural order. What a cunt.

“Uh,” said Grantaire, because he’d forgotten how to form words.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said again, and then hurriedly resumed walking.

“W– Wait!” Grantaire managed, following after him.

Enjolras refused to look at him, eyes fixed steadfastly ahead. “I didn’t mean to do that,” he said.

“No, I get it,” said Grantaire, because, dammit, he wasn’t going to lose Enjolras’ friendship again. “It’s fine, it’s totally fine. You’ve been drinking; I’ve been drinking; this kind of thing happens all the time – I know it didn’t mean anything. Hell, I’ve made out with Courfeyrac enough times and it’s not like either of us was ever serious about that. In fact, Courfeyrac’s made out with probably all of us, and it’s not awkward at all. This stuff happens.” He knew that he was gabbling, but he couldn’t seem to turn off the words: they just kept coming, desperately chasing after Enjolras’ receding figure. “It’s totally fine Enj, it’s no big deal. Don’t you agree? Hey, will you agree with me, please? Hey! Fucking talk to me!”

Enjolras powered onwards, not replying.

By the time they reached Marius and Courfeyrac’s place, Grantaire was out of breath from keeping up with the taller man’s stride (he mentally added ‘get back into fencing’ onto his list of New Year’s resolutions). He was just about able to wheeze out another “Wait.”

Enjolras paused at the door.

“Enj, don’t do this,” said Grantaire. “Don’t not speak to me, please. Like I said: it’s fine. We can just pretend it didn’t happen, like all that other stuff. We can do whatever you want.” His voice sounded small and pathetic, even to himself. “Please don’t stop being my friend.”

Enjolras’ gaze suddenly softened. “Oh, Grantaire, of course I’m not going to… Look, I’m just mad at myself for... I’ve thrown your feelings around enough already, I shouldn’t be hurting you further by doing stupid things like…” he broke off, shaking his head. “It never happened, right?”

“Right,” said Grantaire, because what else could he do?

 

\---

 

_It did happen, though_ , Enjolras’ brain whispered to him, as he tried to fall asleep on Courfeyrac’s uncomfortable futon, with Jehan wriggling around beside him. _It did happen_.

He had kissed Grantaire. He had _wanted_ to kiss Grantaire, in that moment.

Enjolras reached up to brush a finger against his lower lip, still feeling the faint tingle of Grantaire’s mouth. Grantaire, the cynic. Grantaire, who was incapable of sincerity. Grantaire, who had once broken into his house to steal his mother’s jewellery. Grantaire, who was engaged.

What did it mean?

And – more importantly – what on earth had Bahorel put in those cocktails?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in answer to enjolras: a) it means you totally want to dick him and b) everything. literally everything.
> 
> courfeyrac and marius have a 50 inch plasma. you should sit 2.1 m away from a 50 inch plasma for optimal viewing. i do a lot of research for this fic, you know
> 
> aaaanyway i was so happy writing that smooch that i didn't want to write the horrible bit afterwards - i had to go away and leave it a few hours before resuming my writing, so i'm very sorry for making that happen. i feel very bad about it


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is more wedding planning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like this chapter is the beginning of the home-stretch aw yiss

If Éponine noticed anything ‘off’ about Grantaire following New Year’s Eve – for example, a complete and utter emotional turmoil caused by the man of his dreams kissing and then immediately rejecting him – she didn’t mention it. What concerned her more was the way that the days began to flash by once the festive season was over, bringing the wedding day galloping nearer and nearer. With January already rushing along, April was looking dangerously imminent; Éponine simply didn’t have the time to be worrying about Grantaire’s changeable mood. Any hint of gloominess or strain that she did notice in her fiancé, she put down to cold feet about the wedding. Getting married _is_ pretty scary, after all.

Not detracting from Éponine’s levels of stress, Courfeyrac and Cosette had left the selection of certain outfits until rather late. Thankfully, they had ordered the bridal gown and groom’s suit almost immediately – a punctuality which could be attributed solely to Cosette’s influence – but, even with the blonde’s impeccable time-keeping skills, here they were with only four months left, selecting the bridesmaid dresses and pageboy outfit.

The already-slow process was currently being hindered by their reluctant pageboy.

“No way am I wearing that,” said Gavroche, glaring at the bridal catalogue as though it had done him a personal injury.

“Gav,” snapped Éponine, who was getting very tired of the argument, “You have said that about every outfit so far – if you do not pick one soon then you will not be the pageboy.”

“I don’t want to be the sodding pageboy,” Gavroche replied, rocking back in his chair with the arrogance that only a sulking teenager can attain.

Éponine fixed him with her best ‘Enjolras’ look. It was completely ineffective: the kid was worryingly immune to all authority.

She broke eye-contact to appeal to Cosette and Courfeyrac, who had wisely been staying out of it. They both pretended not to see her signals, and continued discussing fabrics. Traitors.

“Look,” said Éponine waspishly, returning her attention to the glossy pages that littered her parents’ kitchen table, “You’re a pageboy, whether you like it or not, and therefore you need to wear one of these outfits. I don’t see what your issue is – all the other blokes have agreed to wear suits. You won’t be the only one. Even _Grantaire_ has to wear a suit.” She waved a brochure at her sullen sibling in emphasis. “ _Grantaire_.”

Gavroche merely shrugged.

Cosette appeared finally to take pity on Éponine, as she reached across the table to tap an elegant fingernail against one of the catalogue’s images. This one showed a pageboy, quite a bit younger than Gavroche, in something which would have resembled a naval uniform, if naval uniforms came with little bows on the collar. “What about that?” she asked. “It’s rather cute, isn’t it?”

“No offense, lady,” said Gavroche, “But it’s a wedding, not a Sailor Moon convention.”

Courfeyrac snorted, and then yelped when Cosette elbowed him fiercely. For someone who looked so delicate at first glance, Cosette could certainly hold her own against the guys. Whether or not she was a match for Gavroche, on the other hand, remained to be seen.

“Why can’t I just wear jeans?” asked Gavroche, turning his best pleading expression on Cosette.

“Because it’s a wedding,” said Cosette – and Éponine wished it could be that easy, she really did.

“So?”

“So you have to wear a suit at a wedding,” said Cosette.

“Says who?”

Cosette frowned, probably trying to find a sufficient answer. “It’s tradition.”

“So?”

“Your sister wants a traditional ceremony.”

“If that’s true,” said Gavroche, a devilish smile creeping onto his face, “Then how come she’s marrying a guy who she’s not in love with, to trick his parents into giving them money?”

Cosette blinked, looking for all the world like a deer caught in headlights, with her large, confused eyes. “Um,” she said, and then – in an act of pure betrayal – pointed at Éponine. “I’m sure that it would be much more sensible to ask your sister that question.”

“Yes, Éponine,” said Courfeyrac, who seemed to be enjoying the conversation very much, “Please explain to us how your marriage can possibly be traditional.”

“Getting married for financial gain sounds like the most traditional wedding there is,” Éponine pointed out. “It just happens that Grantaire is the one with the dowry, not me. Also,” she went on, jabbing a finger towards her brother, “Gav has to wear a suit because it will make him look nice and handsome – there’s no way he’s ruining the wedding pictures by wearing some god-awful jeans.”

“I thought that what looks good is subjective, and we shouldn’t let anyone tell us what to wear,” said Gavroche, and Éponine made a mental note to keep him away from _Les Amis_ meetings in the future. All of Enjolras’ social justice talk was clearly giving the boy ideas. If there was one thing that Gavroche did not need more of, it was ideas.

“Courfeyrac, you tell him,” Éponine commanded. “He actually listens to you.”

Courfeyrac stuck his tongue out at her, but thankfully his overwhelming need for everyone to be well-dressed won out over his need to be irritating. As he launched into a sermon on the importance of colour harmony and the subconscious behavioural effects of fashion, Éponine drifted over to where Cosette was considering the selection of bridesmaid gowns.

“I was rather fond of these tea-length dresses, but Courf says we should go with something shorter,” Cosette told her, handing over a bundle of photographs. “He thinks that the bride should be the only one with her kneecaps covered, but I can’t tell if that’s born out of genuine fashion advice or a desire to ogle our legs.”

Éponine laughed, flicking through the images. “What are these ones called, with the long backs and short fronts?”

“Those are high-low dresses,” said Cosette, examining one. “They would be a reasonable compromise, wouldn’t they?” She paused for a moment, giving a thoughtful hum. “They’re quite nice, actually.”

“I like them,” Éponine agreed. “What fabric would we be using?” As she spoke, she stroked one of the samples curiously. “Oh, this tulle’s nice.”

“No!” Courfeyrac wailed in horror, breaking away from his conversation with Gavroche. “Tulle is absolutely forbidden. Éponine, that is _so_ eighties – how can you even like it?”

Éponine dropped the sample as quickly as possible, trying to appear apologetic. To her, it didn’t look much different from the other fabrics – she’d just liked the feel of it. It _was_ different, though, if Courfeyrac’s expression of disgust was anything to go by.

“We’re having iridescent chiffon, and that is non-negotiable,” Courfeyrac continued. “There will be no tulle anywhere near a wedding that I’ve helped to plan.”

Cosette coughed delicately. “In that case, you might want to contact Jehan about the table runners.”

Courfeyrac’s entire faced blanched. “You’re joking?” he said, already fumbling for his phone.

“Would she joke about something as important as table runners?” asked Gavroche, rolling his eyes.

Courfeyrac gave a strangled yelp, and then he was out of the kitchen and gabbling into his phone, leaving the two women alone with Gavroche. The boy still appeared sulky, but at least he was now actually looking at the catalogue in front of him. Such were life’s small mercies.

“I’ll wear a suit,” he conceded at last, “But none of this frilly crap.” He waved a hand to indicate the majority of the garments depicted on the page, which were admittedly rather frilly.

“Okay,” said Éponine, breathing a sigh of relief. “Thank the Lord.”

“And you have to pay me.”

Éponine smiled sweetly, and then cuffed her brother around the head.

 

\---

 

A little later on, and a couple of miles away, Enjolras was also having problems with the wedding-planning-schema. Namely, at the prospect of organising a stag night.

“You can’t ask the groom to help plan his own stag night,” Grantaire objected. “It’s meant to be a surprise. That’s the whole point – you ruin the fun, otherwise.”

Enjolras shifted disconcertedly in his chair, and found himself suspecting that – just this once – he was wrong and Grantaire was right. It was a rather unsettling role-reversal. “Yes, I know,” he said tetchily, “But I have no idea what goes into a stag night. I was just hoping for some pointers.”

“And you couldn’t have asked Courf?”

“I tried to!” said Enjolras, which was true. He’d phoned Courfeyrac an hour ago, and had found his questions met with an incoherent rant – something about ‘that Prouvaire bastard’ and ‘motherfucking tulle’ – after which he had promptly hung up. Instead, he’d decided to head for the Café Musain, in the hopes that one of his friends would be there, and would be in a more forthcoming mood. By some stroke of luck, the friend whom he had discovered was Grantaire, and – until a few moments ago – this had been the answer to all of his problems. “Besides,” he continued, “I need to know what sort of things _you_ like, seeing as it’s all for your benefit.”

Grantaire assumed an expression of mild offense. “Are you saying that you don’t know any of my interests?”

Shaking his head, Enjolras tried to find a way to articulate the real problem: that he could think of far too many of Grantaire’s interests, and couldn’t decide how to narrow them down.

On reflection, he was surprised at how much he _did_ know about Grantaire. Of course, there were his friend’s obvious passions: drinking, arguing, boxing, art; but there were many more besides, and Enjolras couldn’t begin to imagine how he even knew half of them. When – for example – had he learnt that Grantaire used to take ballet classes? How did he know that the man could speak Latin? It seemed that Enjolras’ mind was more adept at storing Grantaire-trivia than he had originally thought possible.

Nevertheless, Enjolras couldn’t see how any of these interests – aside, maybe, from the alcohol – could be incorporated into a stag do, and furthermore had no clue how best to explain this to Grantaire without sounding a little creepy. Eventually, he settled for a shrug. “I’d rather hear your opinion,” he said.

Grantaire’s eyebrows shot upwards in exaggerated shock. “Did you hear that?” he said (to nobody in particular – but for them, the Café Musain was practically empty), “The mighty Enjolras wants to get my opinion on something! Call a doctor: he must be unwell.”

Enjolras refused to reward his antics with a smile, although it took a real effort to keep a straight face. “I always want to hear your opinion,” he told Grantaire earnestly, “I just normally think that it’s wrong.”

Grantaire gave a short laugh, which didn’t quite sound mirthful.

Despite his best endeavours to forget the subject, Enjolras was suddenly reminded of the night that he had kissed Grantaire – it was something about the man’s eyes, which were regarding him with a mixture of self-deprecation and hope; the look was the same one that Grantaire wore whenever Enjolras said anything remotely complementary.

It occurred to Enjolras that, if Grantaire was this surprised when he was nice, maybe Enjolras hadn’t been the best of friends to him. Did Grantaire expect him, by default, to be cruel or critical?

Enjolras’ chest tightened abruptly, as he considered all the times that he’d upset Grantaire in the past – whether intentionally or on accident.

There was a soft noise as Grantaire cleared his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable. Was he also recalling Enjolras’ past shortcomings, including the kiss? On his part, Enjolras was still beating himself up over it – he simply couldn’t cast it from his thoughts. What _had_ he been thinking, to make advances when Grantaire was drunk and vulnerable; to lead him on, just as he was finally getting his romantic life in order? Enjolras could only imagine how confused Grantaire had been, when Enjolras’ actions were completely incongruous to what he’d said after Grantaire’s offer of a date.

Sure, his own actions had also confused Enjolras himself, but that barely let him off the hook.

Enjolras quietly resolved, in that instant, to be a better friend: a friend worthy of the title of ‘best man’. And, if that meant single-handedly planning the most amazing stag night in recorded history, then that was what he would do.

“Actually,” he said, breaking the silence that had stretched between them, “Never mind. You’re right: I need to organise this without your input, and without appealing to Courfeyrac either. It’s just a party. How hard can it be?”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t you start – I know enough about parties to work this out.”

“Have you ever hosted a party, like, ever?”

Enjolras gave him the Angry Look.

“Okay, okay, just don’t make us go to a museum or anything weird like that.”

“Grantaire, you can trust me,” said Enjolras, and he fully intended to prove this as true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i spent like 2 hours looking at pictures of various bridesmaid dresses i'm taking this wedding planning very seriously i know exactly what everything looks like  
> my internet history certainly looks odd right about now
> 
> someone on tumblr asked me to show them the dresses, so for a rough indication of what i'm thinking you can have a look here:  
> http://eponymph.tumblr.com/post/59436975597/oh-wow-um-sure-they-arent-specific-dresses
> 
> anyway, as ever, thanks for reading and i always love hearing from you guys and you're all rad as heck


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which inevitable truths are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so firstly i'd just like to say a massive thank you to everyone who had sent me lovely messages here and on tumblr since the last chapter just wow you're all cuties!! (smooches)

Although Grantaire was doing an excellent job at pretending not to be bothered around Enjolras, he was actually really, _really_ bothered. Bothered and puzzled. It was an unpleasantly nauseating mix.

Why had Enjolras kissed him? That was the predominant question that plagued his thoughts, keeping him awake at night. He’d toss and turn and ask himself: why?

It would have been easiest to blame it on alcohol, but Enjolras had been sober. He could attribute it to the heat of the moment, but Enjolras had created that moment in the first place. Had it been out of pity for Grantaire? Not likely: the time for pity had been when Grantaire asked him out, not months following. Moreover, if Enjolras had acted intentionally, out of pity or another emotion, then he wouldn’t have freaked mere seconds later.

The only thing that was clear to Grantaire was this: Enjolras had been mortified by his own actions, and wanted to forget the entire fiasco.

Forgetting was easier said than done for Grantaire. The little sleep that he managed was filled with dreams of those eloquent lips on his; those cautious hands brushing his face; that warm body pressed against him. His unconscious mind was intent on torturing him.

The worst part of it all was that Grantaire couldn’t turn to Éponine for comfort. He’d tried to bring the problem up on countless occasions, yet – every time – his voice simply died in his throat. It would have been so reassuring to vent to her – it was how he’d dealt with every issue since high school – but telling her that Enjolras had kissed him would have felt like a betrayal. The secret wasn’t solely Grantaire’s to keep, and so it wasn’t his to share.

In the absence of that habitual out-let, Grantaire had turned to his sketchbooks. Over the past few months, since New Year, he had used up twelve of them – the art itself was entirely shitty, bearing a depressing likeness to the clichéd black-and-red surrealist portraits that are produced by angst-y teenagers the whole world over, but the process was calming.

Despite all of this, he still liked Enjolras. Still _loved_ Enjolras – there was no use dodging around the truth, he supposed: he was in love with Enjolras, regardless of the other man’s lack of reciprocation, and regardless of the way that it tormented him. Grantaire knew that, given all the crap between them, he should have hated Enjolras. He didn’t, though. He couldn’t.

And so, no matter the horrible feelings that it evoked in Grantaire, he was determined to keep the kiss a secret.

That was, until one humid evening in March when his resolve crumbled.

Grantaire was sat on the sofa, aggressively charcoaling a winter landscape – Paris in the snow – when Éponine returned from a wedding dress fitting.

“I looked like a Disney princess,” Éponine gushed, as she flounced into the room. “I swear to God, R, it was the prettiest I’ve ever felt. I wish I could wear dresses like that all the time.” She twirled around in embellishment, arms thrown outwards like a cartoon ballerina. “Those fairy tale characters have the right idea.”

Grantaire gave a non-committal grunt, not looking up from his sketchbook. As usual, he had been brooding over Enjolras, and wasn’t feeling particularly chipper. He didn’t want to ruin her good mood with his pessimism, but neither was he going to feign enthusiasm – he could feel a headache growing as it was.

“Hey!” said Éponine, pausing mid-twirl to pout. “What’s got you so grumpy?”

“Nothing,” he muttered.

Éponine assumed her ‘no-nonsense’ face, which was somehow terrifying despite her short stature. “Grantaire…”

“I said it’s nothing,” he repeated, meeting her eyes defiantly.

“Well it’s obviously something, because normally you would be very eager to hear about my fairy tale wedding dress.”

“Just drop it, Ép.”

“Fine then,” said Éponine, plonking herself next to him on the sofa. “Let’s watch a movie. I’m in a fairy tale mood now – how about _Sleeping Beauty_?”

“I don’t feel like it.”

Éponine scoffed, shoving against his shoulder. “Don’t be stupid: you love fairy tale films. You _always_ feel like watching them.”

“Maybe I’ve gone off of them,” said Grantaire, thinking that there was nothing he wanted less in that moment than to watch animated characters live happily ever after with their handsome princes. Not that he was bitter, or anything.

“Yeah, and maybe I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

“No, really,” said Grantaire, “Fairy tales are pretty dumb. That’s something that I’ve just decided. They’re pretty dumb and I don’t want to listen to their egregious lies.” He realised that, without the context to his new-found opinion, Éponine would be rather confused, but he didn’t care. If he couldn’t tell her the out-right truth, he could at least channel his frustrations with life in this manner.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Oh, you know. It’s all lies, isn’t it? Like, find your handsome prince, live happily ever after, the end. Even if something hinders your story, it can all be resolved with True Love’s First Kiss,” he snorted. “That’s not how it works, though, is it? Your handsome prince might turn out to hate you, and kisses don’t solve a thing.”

“R, honey, I’m completely lost here.”

“All your life, you’re told by these bullshit films that kisses are special, and then you slowly realise that they don’t mean jack,” he continued, knowing that he was saying too much, but unable to stop himself now that he’d opened the metaphorical flood-gates. “And even then, you think that maybe – just maybe – it might mean something if it’s your fucking One True Love. Like, if you love someone enough then they _have_ to feel _something_ in return. Is that naïve, to think that your feelings make a difference? That somehow a little tonsil tennis can change someone’s mind? Was that really so foolish?”

Éponine stared at him blankly for several seconds, and then her features shifted as she understood what he was saying. “Are you telling me,” she asked, “That you actually _kissed_ Enjolras?”

“No,” said Grantaire instantly, “I mean, yes. No.” He let his face drop into his hands, hiding from his fiancée’s gaze. “He kissed me,” he finally supplied, voice so quiet that he wasn’t sure Éponine would hear.

She did hear, if her shocked exclamation was anything by which to judge. “What the fuck?”

“I know,” he said miserably. “And then he assured me that it was all a mistake and made me agree that it never happened.”

“Shit,” said Éponine.

“Yeah. It’s been fucking with my head ever since.”

“‘Ever since’...” she echoed.  “Grantaire, when was this?”

“Uh, New Year’s Eve.”

“And you didn’t say anything to me?”

Grantaire peeked at her through his fingers: she looked border-line murderous, although he couldn’t yet tell whether he or Enjolras would be the victim of the crime. Possibly she would kill both of them at one blow.

“I’m sorry,” he said meekly, “Enjolras said–”

“I don’t want to hear what that twat said,” she snapped, cutting him off. “I can’t believe he’d fucking do that to you – like he hasn’t messed with your emotions enough, after all that shit last year.”

“Éponine, it’s fine,” Grantaire lied. “I’m not angry with him.”

“Well, I fucking am,” said Éponine, standing suddenly. “You know what? I’m going to go right over to his house and have a little chat.”

“No!” Grantaire yelped, jumping off the sofa, as if he could ever stop Éponine when she was on the war-path.

Éponine ignored him completely, grabbing her bag from where she had dropped it, and hurrying from the room. Grantaire was left staring uselessly after her.

 

\---

 

Éponine’s anger hadn’t cooled off in the time it took to catch a bus to Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment, and so, when she hammered on the door, it was with more force than was strictly needed.  They did have a door-bell, but some situations just require the noise that only a fist connecting repeatedly with wood can generate.

The door was opened by Combeferre, and Éponine briefly caught his expression of worry before she pushed past him. There was no time for pleasantries: only heavy-duty ass-kicking.

“Wh-what’s going on?” he stammered behind her, but she disregarded him, marching into the apartment where she knew her quarry would be found.

Enjolras wasn’t in the living area, so she moved straight to his bedroom door. It opened with a satisfying _crash!_ when she kicked it, although it didn’t break. That was a pity.

The heartless bastard was sat cross-legged on his bed, reading a book, but his head shot up in response to Éponine’s arrival. He greeted her with an expression of shock which Éponine would have found comical, if she’d been there to laugh at Enjolras’ expressions. She wasn’t.

“Époni–” Enjolras began, before he was interrupted by a slap in the face.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Éponine demanded.

Enjolras merely stared at her, as if he couldn’t process what had just happened.

“Well?” she said, shaking her now-stinging hand.

Before Enjolras could respond, Combeferre appeared alongside Éponine. He gently took ahold of her wrist – presumably with the aim of preventing any more violence – and frowned down at her.

“What’s this about?” he asked, voice jarringly calm.

Éponine scowled, and tried to free her arm. It was no use.

“Why don’t you ask _him_?” She jerked her head in the direction of Enjolras.

The blonde was now gingerly touching his cheek, which was reddening where her palm had struck.

“Go on, Enj,” she prompted, “Tell us what you did.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Enjolras finally said, his eyebrows drawing together.

“You kissed Grantaire, you bastard!”

She felt Combeferre’s grip tightening, although she couldn’t tell if it was out of surprise or because he thought she would hit Enjolras again. He needn’t have worried: at this point, she was much more interested in causing emotional than physical harm.

“Oh,” said Enjolras. “That.”

“Yes, fucking _that_. What is your fucking problem? Are you stupid? Are you so emotionally incapacitated that you don’t know when you’re hurting someone else, or do you just not care?”

“Wait, what?” asked Enjolras. “Grantaire said that everything was fine. I mean, I know that I must have made him uncomfortable to do something like that when he was drunk.” He paused, glancing briefly at Combeferre – perhaps fearing his disapproval – before resuming his excuse. “But he forgave me, and now we’re past it. This was ages ago.”

Éponine couldn’t believe her ears – was it really feasible for someone to be that out-of-touch with a friend’s feelings? She couldn’t so much as string a sentence together in response: she settled for a frustrated groan.

“Enjolras,” said Combeferre, regarding his flatmate sternly, “Do you mean to say that you kissed Grantaire, and are somehow under the impression that he could ever be ‘past’ that?”

“Grantaire said it was fine,” Enjolras repeated, less confidently. “He said that people do those things when drunk all the time, and that it didn’t mean anything.”

“He was just _saying_ that!” cried Éponine. “Of course he’s not over it – would you be, in his situation? I mean, to have you pull that and then reject him yet again, when he’s been in love with you for two fucking–”

“Excuse me?” Enjolras interrupted.

“He’s been in love with you for two fucking years,” Éponine re-iterated, her voice trailing off as anger melted into confusion. Why was Enjolras looking at her as if she had just grown another head? “You… You must know that, right?”

“I don’t think he does,” Combeferre whispered in her ear (which was quite a feat, considering that he was about a foot taller than her).

“ _How_ could you not know that?” said Éponine. “I mean, Grantaire’s been pretty obvious about it. He literally asked you out on a date, Enjolras.”

“But,” said Enjolras weakly, glancing between them, “I thought that was just, I don’t know, a ‘crush’,” and – dear Lord – he mimed the air-quotes around the word ‘crush’. What a loser. “I thought that it ended a long time ago! But now you think that he’s in love with me? You too, ‘Ferre?”

“Myself, and everyone else in the world,” said Combeferre.

“Look,” said Éponine, trying to wave her hand in emphasis, and then realising that Combeferre still had ahold of her. “You can let go, ‘Ferre, I promise not to hit him.” Once her wrist was freed, she resumed: “Enjolras, you need to stop screwing with Grantaire. Like, sometimes you act like you hate him, and then you’ll suddenly be his best friend, and then you randomly flirt with him and even, so it seems, kiss him. Those are some serious mixed signals, and it needs to stop: you’re making him totally miserable.”

“I do not flirt with him!” said Enjolras indignantly, looking to Combeferre for support.

Combeferre gave an apologetic shrug.

Enjolras took on the same look that Caesar must have worn when Brutus drove the knife into his back.

“Maybe you don’t think of it as flirting,” said Éponine, forcing herself to be reasonable. She’d much have preferred to grab Enjolras and shake him until he rattled, but sometimes one has to make sacrifices for the greater good. “However, when you compliment him, or tease him, or make him do up your jacket – yes, he told me about that, and all – that stuff’s quite flirty.”

“You laugh at his jokes a lot,” said Combeferre.

“And you smile at him more often than you smile at other people.”

“That’s not–” began Enjolras, but Éponine held up a hand to silence him.

“Grantaire is my closest friend,” she said, “and also my fiancé, so I’m only going to give you this once chance: do you have feelings for him?”

“No!” said Enjolras immediately, sounding horrified at the thought.

“Then here’s the ultimatum: either you quit fucking with his mind, and are nothing but a perfect best man and unambiguously platonic friend, or you leave his life forever.”

“Éponine,” said Combeferre, clearly about to object.

“Shut it, ‘Ferre, I’m serious. Grantaire needs to be allowed to get over this, and that’s not going to happen if fucking Barbie over there can’t stop giving him false hope. Not only is it cruel to Grantaire, but he is also marrying me, in case you forgot. That’s a big commitment, and it’s complicated enough already without confused feelings.” She jabbed a finger at the man on the bed. “Enjolras, if I ever hear of you kissing, inappropriately touching, flirting, even fucking batting your eyelids at Grantaire, I will cut you off from our lives completely. Don’t think that I can’t persuade him that you never want to see him again, because I really can. I don’t want to do it, but – if you’re going to continue hurting him like this – then it’s the lesser of two evils.”

“This hardly seems fair,” said Enjolras, starting to look irritated.

“No,” said Éponine, “What’s not fair is the way you’ve been acting. Now, promise me that it ends here.”

Enjolras hesitated for a second, seemingly weighing up his options. “Okay,” he sighed eventually. “I’ll try harder not to lead him on, although it was never my intention, I swear – I didn’t realise I was doing it. But I promise to stop.”

Éponine held his gaze, eyes narrowed for several long moments. He looked moodily back at her.

“Is that all?” he asked.

Éponine was tempted to stay and intimidate him a little longer, but Combeferre delicately steered her out of the room, and back into the hall.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Ép,” he said, as he held the front door open for her.

“It’s for the best,” she told him.

Combeferre smiled softly, and shrugged, as if to say ‘If you insist’. Something told Éponine that he wasn’t convinced, though, and she had the distinct feeling of being watched as she hurried away down the street.

 

\---

 

Hours later, Enjolras was still annoyed at the ridiculous interrogation he had suffered at the hands of his friends.

Him, flirt with Grantaire? The very idea was absurd. Certainly, he was nice to Grantaire, but that’s how friendship works: you say pleasant things to your friends, for God’s sake! And so what if he laughed at Grantaire’s jokes? The man was funny; it didn’t mean that Enjolras wanted to date him.

Well, if Éponine wanted Enjolras to be an unambiguously platonic, exemplar best man, then an unambiguously platonic, exemplar best man he would be.

Speaking of which, he still hadn’t written the best man’s speech. He wasn’t too worried about it – speeches were his speciality – but he supposed that he should get it done.

Enjolras sat down at his desk, drawing a notebook towards him in preparation. What should he write? Best man’s speeches were generally humorous, but Enjolras wasn’t exactly a comedian. He’d have to go down the ‘affectionately embarrassing anecdotes’ route, then.

Enjolras picked up a biro, rolling it between his fingers as he thought. Perhaps he could talk about the time they’d first met – when had that been, again? Oh yes, it had been in early February - he recalled Grantaire mentioning the fact when they’d been discussing…

He grimaced, as he remembered that the conversation had been a precedent to Grantaire asking him out on a date. Maybe it was best not to mention that part, all things considered.

_When I first became acquainted with Grantaire_ , Enjolras wrote, _He and Éponine were gate-crashing one of my social activism meetings. I was initially thrilled to have new supporters of the Cause. This lasted for about ten minutes, until Grantaire opened his mouth, and proved himself to be the single most aggravating person whom I have ever met._

Enjolras frowned, and crossed that out – it sounded far too mean (even if it was true, although – thinking about it – Courfeyrac came a close second for the title). He should probably write something complimentary, as the best man.

_I don’t know a person more deserving of happiness than Grantaire: he’s one of the kindest, warmest, most talented people that I know – always putting others before himself; supporting his friends in their passions, even those that he does not share; modestly refusing all praise and thanks. He is an incredible individual, and one of my dearest friends._

Enjolras stopped, re-reading the last few words. Okay, so that didn’t sound completely unambiguously platonic. Maybe Éponine had a point, and he really to tone down some of the things that he said. That kind of phrasing could definitely give someone the wrong impression.

Except that, he thought, what he’d written was all true – it wasn’t like he was purposefully exaggerating. Grantaire _was_ incredible. Enjolras _did_ hold his friendship dearly. It wasn’t Enjolras’ fault if people thought that this indicated romantic feelings on his part. In fact, it was a very problematic feature of society that a man couldn’t express positive emotions towards another man without being deemed sexually interested in him. Obviously, it was yet another repercussion of the patriarchy, which viewed emotions as weak and feminine, and therefore not experienced by ‘real men’. This also raised the issue of homophobic stereotypes, as it brought to light the tendency for gay men to be considered somehow emasculated by their sexual orientation.

Looking down, Enjolras realised that he’d started to write a tirade on gender expectations, and hurriedly scrubbed it out. He was meant to be focusing on Grantaire, just this once. It was funny how, ordinarily, Grantaire would distract him from his speeches, and now it was his speeches distracting him from Grantaire. Enjolras shook his head fondly, thinking of the tangents on which Grantaire would often lead him with a well-placed insult.

Back to work: Enjolras decided on another approach. If neither anecdotes nor compliments were suitable, he could always describe what a wonderful couple Éponine and Grantaire made.

He tried to think of something positive to write about the pair, but came up blank. The fact was, he didn’t like them as a couple: separately, they were wonderful, but there was something about the two of them holding hands and kissing and pretending to be in love which really irked him. Just thinking about those stupid pet names they used prompted a nasty churning sensation behind his navel. It was most likely due to his disapproval of the dishonesty inherent in a faked relationship. But he could hardly mention any of this in a best man’s speech.

Why was this so difficult? There had to be _something_ he could say about Grantaire, without either insulting him or incurring Éponine’s wrath.

Enjolras racked his brain for memories of the man, hoping to fall upon something he could use. He found himself smiling as images flickered through his mind’s eye, one after the other: Grantaire rocking back in his chair and laughing openly at Enjolras’ arguments; Grantaire comparing bruising hands with Bahorel after a game of slapsies; Grantaire storming out of the Café Musain after Enjolras had told him to leave; Grantaire silhouetted in the light of the hall, raising a flick-knife as Enjolras brandished a cricket bat; the uncharacteristic hesitancy and shyness on Grantaire’s face when he asked Enjolras out; smoke trailing from Grantaire’s mouth as they both leant against a wheelie bin; snow collecting in Grantaire’s unruly hair while they walked back to the New Year’s party; the taste of Grantaire’s chapped lips against his tongue…

The biro clattered from Enjolras’ hand.

He was definitely _not_ meant to be thinking about that. He did not want to think about that at all.

So why did the kiss keep returning to his mind? Why did he find himself, so often, dwelling on that night? Enjolras had presumed, at first, that it was because he felt guilty, but now – as he again felt the ghost of Grantaire’s mouth on his own – he was sure that guilt wasn’t the accompanying emotion. Guilt doesn’t make your stomach flip, or your chest tighten, or your pulse thrum faster.

The echoes of Éponine and Combeferre buzzed in his head: _you compliment him; you laugh at his jokes; you smile at him more than at anyone else._

_Do you have feelings for him?_

Enjolras’ heart seemed to skip a beat, as the truth hit him.

He was in love with Grantaire.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at fucking last, am i right?


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a hen night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm half-asleep right now so if there are any mistakes in spelling or grammar i apologise profusely  
> but i wanted to get this uploaded because people have been very eager to read on. which is way cool

The hen night plans had been left in Azelma’s capable hands, which meant that it was to consist largely of clubbing: not particularly original, but well suited to a ‘last night of freedom’. Another important feature of the night, according to Azelma, was that the four of them – Éponine, Cosette, Musichetta, and Azelma – dressed in fairy outfits.

Éponine inspected herself in Cosette’s dressing-table mirror, assessing the sparkling costume that she now wore. If she squinted enough, the sequins sort of blurred together, and she could almost believe them to be the sheen of fairy dust. Almost. She daubed some glitter onto her face, hoping that it would add to the magic.

“I’m coming in,” announced the voice of Musichetta, just outside the door. “Shout if you’re naked.”

Before Éponine could have possibly shouted, were she naked, Musichetta burst into the room.

Where Éponine had opted for a gothic, dark fairy ensemble, Musichetta looked more like a woodland elf: her frizzy hair was circled with a crown of plastic flowers; her large eyes were ringed with golden liner; and the skirt of her dress emulated autumn leaves. It was very impressive, if a little high-fashion for a hen party costume.

“Nice,” said Éponine, as Musichetta retrieved a pair of wings from Cosette’s bed. “Are you all waiting for me?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry – tell them I’ll be down in a few.”

Musichetta tutted impatiently, but left to relay the message.

Alone again, Éponine returned to her reflection. Her own face stared back, lit unflatteringly by the harsh fluorescent bulbs that surrounded Cosette’s mirror. She looked tired, with shadows under her eyes and a pallor to her skin, neither of which were concealed fully by her make-up.

She sighed, flicking a switch to turn off the lights. How other brides-to-be managed to remain so attractive was beyond Éponine – stress simply wasn’t conducive to beauty. And she was _extremely_ stressed by the engagement.

It wasn’t that she was having cold feet, she told herself, as she sat in the dim bedroom. No, her feet weren’t cold. Chilly, perhaps. It was pretty daunting to know that, by this time tomorrow, she’d be someone’s wife.

Éponine shook herself. It was far too late to be having doubts, and she had a hen party to get to.

In any case, she didn’t regret her decision to marry her friend: it might not have been what she’d pictured growing up, but it was still an excellent backup plan.

After adding a little more glitter to her cleavage – if Ke$ha music videos had taught her anything, it was that one can never have too much glitter – Éponine finally left Cosette’s room in search of her fellow ‘hens’.

She found them in the kitchen, along with Cosette’s father. Valjean looked rather bemused by the girls’ outfits, but had otherwise taken their presence into his stride. There were even mugs of tea and plate of biscuits on the table. For such a scary-looking man, he was a big softy.

When Éponine entered the room, he rose to offer her his chair. What a swell guy.

Predictably, Cosette was clad in the sort of frock that one might find in a Disney film: all turquoise sparkles and faux-gossamer puff-sleeves. If the tooth fairy and Barbie had reproduced, Cosette’s current appearance would be the result. She even had a glitzy wand, bless her cotton socks.

Azelma, on the other hand, looked more like a punk than a fairy. She _did_ have fairy wings and a tutu, so Éponine was willing to let it slide.

“Well then,” said Valjean, patting Cosette affectionately on the head as he passed, “I’ll leave you ladies to it. Have a fun evening, and please make sure to phone me if you get into any kind of trouble.”

“Yes, Papa,” said Cosette, smiling up at him.

Watching Valjean leave the kitchen, Éponine felt a tiny pang of jealousy at Cosette’s closeness to her father. It was quickly quashed: she was meant to be through with feeling jealous of Cosette, whether for her home life or her boyfriend.

Saying that, Éponine hadn’t felt jealous about Marius for a long time. A remarkably long time. It was a surprising truth, but – as she searched within herself – she couldn’t find any hard feelings left towards the couple. She gave herself a mental pat on the back. Way to go, Éponine.

Still, she did allow herself briefly to wish for a situation where her father was more like Valjean. Or, at least, hadn’t agreed to give her away motivated only by financial gain. Tomorrow was going to be a nightmare.

Azelma must have caught Éponine’s expression, because she stood up swiftly, grabbing her handbag from the table. “Come on then, fey folk,” she said, “Time to party!”

 

\---

 

By the fifth club, Azelma had lost her wings completely, and everyone was a little bit giggly; although Éponine was a ‘hardened drinker’, the other three were definitely not, and their drunken high-spirits were infectious.

Éponine ordered a round of Apple Jack shots at the bar, smirking as she was reminded that Grantaire’s parents were paying. She wondered if they’d expected their hen night budget to be spent on alcohol and fairy wings. Probably not.

She took the tray of shots, and made to return to their booth.

Éponine stopped mid-way across the room. There was a fourth person sat with her friends: male; wearing a leather jacket and white t-shirt combo that could have come straight off the back of John Travolta; one arm flung around the uncomfortable-looking Azelma. Montparnasse.

Maybe it was time to think about a restraining order.

Dare she go over? She could always hang around the bar for a bit to see if he’d leave…

No, fuck that: it was _her_ hen night, and she wasn’t going to let some jerk in eyeliner (which, okay, was admittedly quite a good look on him) ruin it. Instead, she marched over, and dropped the tray right in front of Montparnasse with a threatening clatter. He jumped. It was very satisfying.

“Montparnasse,” she said coldly, scooting Cosette over so that she could sit opposite him. “Didn’t anyone tell you that hen parties are for ladies only?”

“That’s sexism” said Montparnasse sulkily. He didn’t seem to be in a very good mood.

He was also pretty drunk. Éponine could now see that what she had originally taken to be a lecherous arm around Azelma was more likely an anchor, stopping him from falling off the seat.

“Okay,” said Éponine, picking up her shot glass. “Hen parties are for invited people only, gender notwithstanding.”

“Sorry, Ép,” Cosette murmured in her hear, “He just appeared. He says he wants to talk to you about something very important, and we couldn’t get him to leave.”

Éponine gave a disgusted grunt, and scowled at her swaying ex-boyfriend. She dreaded to think how much he’d drunk to get like this: normally, he was practically immune to inebriation. “You have something to say?”

“Yes. A very important thing to say.”

“I’m waiting.”

He paused, narrowing his eyes at Azelma. “It’s private,” he said.

“Anything you can say to me, you can say to my friends,” Éponine told him. “And if you could hurry it up, that’d be great. I’m losing interest already.” She swallowed her drink in illustration of this.

“Fine,” said Montparnasse, pouting slightly. “I have information regarding to your boyfriend.”

“Grantaire is not my boyfriend. He’s my fiancé.”

Montparnasse grimaced at the word ‘fiancé’, as if it was somehow insulting. “He’s,” said Montparnasse, and then waited for a few seconds. Éponine couldn’t tell if it was for suspense, or because he’d forgotten what he was going to say. Finally, he leaned closer – nearly pulling Azelma out of her seat as he did so – and continued in a stage-whisper: “A homosexual.”

“I am literally the one who told you that, dumbass. It’s not new information.”

“Yes,” said Montparnasse, unfazed by her words. “But also did you know that…” He paused again, wriggling his eyebrows.

“If you don’t get on with this, I will hit you,” said Éponine.

“He’s in love with that one pretty boy.”

Musichetta snorted in laughter at the description of Enjolras, but subdued herself when Éponine gave her a look. They didn’t want to encourage Montparnasse, after all.

“Right,” said Éponine, standing up and grabbing Montparnasse by the shoulder. After a brief struggle, she managed to untangle him from Azelma and haul him to his feet. “If you don’t have anything important to say, then will you just bugger off?”

“No, this is important,” whined Montparnasse, wobbling around in her grip. She was quite tempted to drop him. “I have to say this thing to you right now.”

“Yes?”

He grasped her hand dramatically, and fixed her with an expression that would have been intense if he wasn’t so bleary-eyed. “I love you,” he proclaimed.

Éponine dropped him. Cosette gasped. Musichetta and Azelma cheered.

“Ow!” said Montparnasse, glaring up at her from his new position on the floor. “Why’d you do that?”

“I don’t have any interest in your silly head-games,” said Éponine, kicking one of his feet. “Come on: get up and leave. Pip-pip.”

“No, no, no, I mean it,” he objected. “I really, really do: I love you a whole fuck-load.”

“For God’s sake, you’re making a scene. Get up and fuck off.”

He managed to scramble to his knees, which was possibly even worse than before.

“I’m crazy about you, Ép. And I’m really sorry about all that stuff I did like call you flat-chested and threaten you with a knife and that time I broke your phone.”

“That was _you_?”

“Uh,” he said, chewing his lip. “And also I’m sorry for not telling you about that sooner.”

People were starting to look. It was getting embarrassing.

She kicked him again, harder. “Stand up, you oaf.”

“No!” he insisted. “Let me say this. It’s very important.”

By this point, Musichetta and Azelma were practically pissing themselves with laughter. At least Cosette had the decency to look concerned.

“Don’t marry the gay guy,” said Montparnasse, trying to take her hand again. She shook him away, but he continued determinedly. “Take me back – I swear I’ve changed. Cross my heart and hope to stick a needle–” He broke off, frowning. “No, that’s not right. Stick a needle in my heart, and–”

Éponine interrupted him with a groan of frustration. “Just shut up,” she said. “It’s not gonna happen, so give up.”

“Pardon?” said Montparnasse, a frown crossing his face.

“I am going to marry Grantaire – tomorrow, I might add – and even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t take you back. You’re kind of a creep. So just go away and stop harassing me.”

Montparnasse finally clambered to his feet, and stood before her, teetering a little. His left eye began to do that twitching thing that it did when he got angry. It wasn’t a good sign.

“Pardon?” he said again, emphasising the plosive.

Éponine refused to back down. “I am not taking you back, like, ever.”

“Yeah,” said Musichetta, still giggling. “You are never, ever, ever getting back together.”

Éponine ignored her. “What’s more, I don’t for a moment believe you when you say that you’re in love with me – you’re very drunk and probably a bit jealous. What you’re not is in love with me, and I’m not in love with you, and I would like you to leave me the fuck alone. Seriously, stop turning up in places.”

A flush crept high on Montparnasse’s cheek bones, and he was suddenly standing upright with apparent ease. “Oh yeah?” he said, voice growing in volume as he continued. “Think you can do better, do you? What’s with all these notions you’ve got, huh, Ép?” He waved his hand, as if indicating the alleged ‘notions’. “You suddenly think you’re all that, hanging around those rich-boy pansies and flashing your new cash around like you aren’t scamming it out of ‘Taire’s parents. Well, you’re _not_ all that. You’re not all of anything – you’re the same flat-chested crook you’ve always been, and a stupid bitch to boot.”

“That’s enough, ‘Parnasse,” said Azelma, half-rising from her seat.

“Sit the fuck down,” said Montparnasse, wheeling on her. She obeyed, her eyes flickering nervously between him and Éponine.

“Where was I?” said Montparnasse. “Oh right: you’ve got some nerve, calling me a creep. Like you aren’t using your ‘best friend’ as a cash cow. Admit it – you ain’t in any position to be judging me. You’re on my fucking level. So don’t go pretending you’re suddenly too good for me.”

“Stop talking to her like that!” snapped a voice somewhere over Éponine’s shoulder, and she realised that Cosette had moved to stand beside her. “Éponine is nothing like that – she’s a wonderful friend, and a good person. You’ve got no right to come and insult her like this. If you don’t leave immediately I shall call the police.”

Montparnasse’s jaw jutted outwards, and he eyed Cosette with a calculating fury. Then something seemed to click in his eyes, and he smirked. “You’re that little piece from the engagement party, aren’t you? The one who that freckled cunt was fawning over all evening.”

Cosette seemed to bristle, and she drew herself up to her full height – all five foot, three inches of it. “If you’re talking about my boyfriend,” she snapped, “Then you’d better think carefully about how you want to continue.”

Montparnasse’s smile grew. It was thoroughly unpleasant, and very disconcerting. “He’s your boyfriend, now, is he? Funny, Ép, I thought he was the one you’ve got a little crush on.”

Éponine’s heart seemed to freeze, and she felt Cosette stiffen beside her.

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Montparnasse. “I remember now, because ‘Zelma here told me a hilarious story about it, where you literally threw yourself at him. Bet the little princess over there didn’t know about that, right? It’s kind of pathetic, how you’ve been pretending to get all chummy with her, when really you’re lusting over her man.”

Before Éponine could interject, Cosette stepped around her and punched Montparnasse in the face. Like, a full-on punch. A real, actual, proper punch. Cosette. There was a crunching noise. Because of Cosette.

Nobody was able to comprehend the situation for several seconds. Apart from Montparnasse: he went reeling, clutching his nose and cursing like a sailor, and then stumbled right into the club’s bouncer. The bouncer was not happy, judging by the way that he cracked his knuckles and glared down at the swearing man.

Cosette turned away from the unfolding scene, grabbed her shot glass, and downed it. It was very bad-ass, and would have been even better if she didn’t cough at the taste.

Once she’d recovered, she took one of Éponine’s hands in her own. “Drink up, ladies,” she told Musichetta and Azelma, who were staring at her in awe. “I think we should head to the next club now.”

The other two obeyed.

“Cosette,” said Éponine, as they moved towards the exit. “I would never try to–”

“I know you wouldn’t,” said Cosette, smiling at her. “And I’m not mad at you for liking Marius. I already knew – he told me what happened between you, ages ago now. I understand.”

“I don’t like Marius in that way,” said Éponine, and she realised, as she said it, that it was the truth. She recalled earlier that evening, when she’d found that she no longer harboured animosity towards the couple. She couldn’t even remember the last time that she’d fantasised about Marius. She was over him.

“I’m over him!” she said excitedly, as they exited the building. “I’m actually over him.”

Musichetta applauded, and pulled her into a crushing hug, right in the entrance. Cosette laughed, and joined in, catching Azelma as she did so. They stood embracing, a mess of glitter and cheap fairy wings, until the bouncer cleared his throat and asked them to stop blocking the door.

Even then, they hugged for a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know that it contained no kissing boys, but i felt that i should make sure that éponine got some closure in her plot-line before we go to the hard-core resolutions  
> stag night next update!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a stag do.

To everyone’s surprise, Enjolras came through with the stag party.

Admittedly, Grantaire had been initially apprehensive, when the man had ordered them all into a minibus and promptly driven _away_ from Paris. This feeling was not alleviated when they arrived, after about an hour, in thick woodland.

“Don’t tell me we’re doing a woodland walk,” said Courfeyrac, who was staring in horror at the dirt already collecting on his Converses.

“Have a little faith in me.”

“I have plenty of faith in you. Just not in your stag party.”

“I can’t hear you,” said Enjolras, a little childishly, and set off down a boggy track.

The menexchanged looks, and then reached a mutual decision that they’d rather follow their leader than stand around in a soggy forest. They cautiously joined him on the path.

After several minutes of walking, the way became less damp underfoot, although it now wound uphill. Grantaire was beginning to wish that he’d worn hiking boots. He didn’t own any hiking boots, sure, but that was beside the point.

“I hate nature,” Bahorel commented, glaring at the back of Enjolras’ head.

“Nature hates me,” said Bossuet gloomily, as he narrowly avoided tripping over a tree root.

“I moved to Paris to get further away from nature,” said Bahorel. “I had enough nature growing up.”

Jehan shook his head disappointedly. “You need to learn to appreciate the beauty of the world,” he said. “Look at all these magnificent trees; they’ve stood here for hundreds of years, recycling nutrients and converting carbon dioxide into the oxygen upon which we depend. We should be thanking them.”

“Thank you, trees,” said Grantaire dryly.

“I’d rather thank them from back in the minivan,” said Joly, rubbing at his eyes. “They’re triggering my hay-fever.”

“Stop complaining,” Enjolras called back to them. “We’re almost there, anyway.”

When they made it over the crest of the hill, it became apparent that they shouldn’t have doubted Enjolras for a moment.

Before them lay an arena, which was enclosed with a low wooden barrier. The fenced area had been mostly cleared of plants, and the floor was covered in woodchips, rather than mud. Scattered around were various obstacles: a few trees, piles of logs, wooden crates, even a wall of car tyres. A squat hut stood by the entrance gate, with a large red sign above it that read ‘Armoury’.

As they watched, a broad-shouldered woman came out of the hut, wearing camouflage gear and cartoonish war-paint on her face. She carried something that looked like a gun, which she waved at them in greeting.

Marius gave a little excited jump. “You’re taking us paintballing?”

“Of course not,” said Enjolras. “I’m taking you laser shooting – it sounded much more interesting.”

 

\---

 

Once they were all briefed, kitted-out, and covered in smears of face-paint (which were apparently mandatory), the men split into two teams.

His friends immediately insisted that Grantaire take one of the leadership positions, as the groom-to-be, despite his protestations that he was _not_ born to lead. He eventually found himself heading a team consisting of Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, and Feuilly. In a more appropriate appointment, Enjolras took charge of the other group – Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Marius, and Jehan.

The rules, explained the instructor – who introduced herself as Constance – were simple: shoot the other team, and try not to get shot yourself.

“If you’re shot, you’ll hear a ‘ding’,” said Constance. “It’s five shots to lose a life, and three lives before you’re out. Then your helmet will light up like a Christmas tree, and you’ll have to go and sit in the corner of shame.” She indicated a fenced area, which looked uninspiring, if not particularly shameful. “The winning team receives a laminated certificate thingy. It’s very exciting.”

Grantaire’s team, allotted first choice thanks to a fortuitous game of rock-paper-scissors, claimed the up-hill end of the arena; Grantaire was hoping to gain a tactical advantage through the elevation. The five men crouched behind a log-pile, which served as their ‘base’, waiting for the starting whistle.

“Any strategic tips?” asked Bahorel, who had fashioned his war-paint into kitten whiskers. Grantaire mentally appointed him as second-in-command, in reward for his forward-thinking face painting. All armies should go into war wearing kitten whiskers, Grantaire decided – it would lull the enemy into a false sense of security. Hopefully.

“Um,” said Grantaire. “Not really. Don’t get shot.”

“Thanks, mate.”

The whistle sounded, and there was a flurry of activity as everyone moved to new positions. Joly and Bossuet dashed forwards, aiming for a low bush that would provide a better vantage point. Along the way, Bossuet was divested of his first ‘life’. It always had to be him.

To Grantaire’s far left, Bahorel had wedged himself between a tree and the fence, sending a near-constant stream of laser ‘bullets’ at the opposite end of the arena. He was a terrible shot, but Grantaire supposed that he’d have to hit _someone_ if he carried on like that. In contrast, Feuilly – to Grantaire’s far right – was lying on his stomach in the mud, firing precise rounds from the cover of a tree stump. From the _dings_ that accompanied each of his shots, it seemed that he hit his mark every time.

Grantaire considered just staying in the ‘base’. It provided a good shelter, and he wasn’t interested in taking out the other team straight away. He could wait for them to come to him.

Then again, he really wanted to be the one to get Enjolras.

He stuck his head around the log-pile. The other team all seemed to be under cover – he couldn’t see much at their end: a blur of violet that might have been Jehan’s sweater; a flash of light that could have been Combeferre’s glasses; a flurry of blonde as a gun was pointed in his direction– _Ding!_

Cursing, Grantaire withdrew. Evidently his decision to target Enjolras was reciprocated. Grantaire would have reflected that it made a nice change from the usual non-reciprocation between them, but he wasn’t meant to be thinking about that stuff. Not when there was a laminated certificate thingy at stake.

Grantaire peered out again, cautiously, and aimed the sight of his gun at the crate behind which he had last seen Enjolras. He narrowed his eyes, curling his fingers around the trigger. _Just you wait, Enjolras,_ he thought in the man’s general direction. _I’ll get you yet._

His focus was broken by Marius, who took that moment to run, laser shooter blazing, towards Grantaire’s end of the arena.

Marius’ act of suicidal heroism was surprisingly effective, as it prompted Bahorel to leap from his cover to return the fire. From their hiding places, the opposite team made quick work of him, and his helmet was soon flashing with red lights. Grantaire demoted him back down from second-in-command, because the kitten whiskers hadn’t provided any advantage whatsoever.

Marius made it as far as Joly and Bossuet’s shrub, losing only one life to Grantaire and Feuilly along the way. Unfortunately for him, he decided to take shelter behind the bush, and Bossuet and Joly were able to dispatch him easily. He joined Bahorel in the corner of shame, scuffing his feet sullenly against the woodchips.

The ‘battle’ continued in the same manner: Courfeyrac – who had removed his shirt at some point, Grantaire noted despairingly as he watched through the viewfinder – was next to light up, followed by Bossuet and Joly, and then Jehan, who had been too focused on shooting at the other two to notice Feuilly and Grantaire firing at _him_.

Grantaire still hadn’t managed to get Enjolras; he hadn’t even seen him since that first glimpse.

A quick succession of _dings_ alerted Grantaire that he was being shot, and he realised that his shelter had been compromised. He spun around, to find that Combeferre had snuck up on the left flank – no longer protected by Bahorel – and had a direct line of fire. Grantaire swore, and scuffled backwards to find refuge behind a stack of tyres. Combeferre smiled at him, and bobbed away again. The sneaky bastard.

“I think Enj is behind that beech tree,” said Feuilly, to whom Grantaire was now much closer. “He fired at me a few seconds ago.”

“Like you expect me to know the types of trees.”

“It’s the one with the fuck-ugly trunk.”

“See, that’s a much better description. You can be second-in-command.”

“Thanks.”

Grantaire aimed his gun at the tree in question, the trunk of which was covered in twisted knots and bulges.

“You deal with ‘Ferre,” he told Feuilly, “I’ll watch Enjolras.”

Feuilly muttered something which sounded like “I bet you will”, but darted away before Grantaire could berate him.

While Grantaire waited, there wasn’t a single movement from the beech tree, and he began to suspect that Feuilly had been mistaken. Surely Enjolras would have looked out by now, at least to see what was going on? It wasn’t like he’d just wait behind a tree until someone came to find him. That wasn’t his style.

From the left, a volley of _dings_ rang out, and Grantaire heard a triumphant yell from Feuilly. Combeferre was out.

The next moment, Feuilly’s lights were flashing also. Enjolras must have got him – but how was that possible if Grantaire had been watching his hide-out all along? Enjolras had to be elsewhere.

There was only one thing left to do: Grantaire would have to make a run for it – if he could reach the other side of the arena, he’d be sure to spot Enjolras along the way. Of course, he might get shot down, but people in TV shows were always saying that it’s harder to hit a moving target. Maybe he’d have a chance. Plus, it was the last thing Enjolras would expect him to do. Probably.

Grantaire leapt from his hiding place, and launched himself across the arena.

He was metres from the beech when a tree-stump attacked his feet. Grantaire went flying forwards, and landed face-down in the woodchips. His laser shooter skittered from his hands. So much for a surprise offence.

With a groan, he rolled onto his back, and waited for the inevitable end.

There was a light _thud_ from somewhere behind his head, and then the sound of laughter. Grantaire craned his neck backwards to take in the upside-down view of the beech tree. Enjolras now stood before it, laughing his head off. The douche must have climbed the tree, and hidden up in its branches. What a dirty cheat.

“Shut up,” said Grantaire weakly.

“S-sorry,” gasped Enjolras, not sounding sorry at all. “But you should see y-your face. You’re not hurt, are you?”

“My dignity is very wounded.”

After several seconds, Enjolras managed to stop giggling, and paused to wipe at his eyes.

“Can you just shoot me already?”

“That wouldn’t be very sporting of me,” said Enjolras, moving closer. “Let me give you a hand up. Then I’ll shoot you. I promise.” He leant down, and reached out an arm to Grantaire.

No way was Grantaire surrendering his laminated certificate thingy that easily. He took the proffered hand, refusing to dwell on how perfect it felt in his own – because, really, now was neither the time nor place for that soppy kind of thing – and, rather than using the leverage to pull himself up, gave a sharp tug. Enjolras came crashing down next to him.

Grantaire rolled onto his front, pushed himself to his knees, and retrieved the laser shooter. Enjolras stared up at him with an expression of utter betrayal, as Grantaire aimed the muzzle directly at his head.

“I’m trying to think of a witty one-liner before I pull the trigger,” he told Enjolras.

“If you dare say anything about firing your lasers…”

“I can’t believe you just made that reference,” said Grantaire, unable to keep from grinning. “You’re such a nerd.”

“You wouldn’t want me any other way.”

“No, I guess I wouldn’t,” Grantaire agreed.

For some reason, Enjolras gave him an odd look – something between joy and panic – in response. And was it just Grantaire’s imagination, or were his cheeks reddening? What had Grantaire done wrong now?

“Um, just fire,” said Enjolras, looking away from him. “The others are probably waiting.”

Grantaire shrugged, and squeezed the trigger.

A cacophony of _dings_ erupted from Enjolras’ head-gear, and then it lit up, flashing with crimson warning lights. They were only a tad brighter than Enjolras’ face.

 

\---

 

Enjolras was doing terribly at being unambiguously platonic. It was Grantaire’s fault, though. He kept doing horrible things like giving that crooked half-smile that made Enjolras’ stomach flutter; like running one hand through his hair and making it stick up in a really attractive way; like looking at Enjolras with this reverent gaze, as if Enjolras was the most interesting person in the entire world. And the worst part was that Grantaire didn’t even seem to be aware that he was doing all of this – like he was completely oblivious to how _cute_ he was. And Enjolras never used the word cute.

After the laser battle, Enjolras had driven everyone back to the Corinthe, where he’d decided that they should spend the rest of the stag night. If his friends wanted to get plastered, he thought, it was better that they did it somewhere familiar and close to home. Courfeyrac had once made him watch _The Hangover_ , and Enjolras was determined that nothing like that would happen on his watch.

For the first hour or so, things went pretty well. Enjolras was able to avoid prolonged conversation with Grantaire – and the attached potential for screwing up – without too much trouble, as he was more preoccupied with preventing Courfeyrac from dialling for strippers.

“Come on, Enj, it’s a stag do,” Courfeyrac whinged, as Enjolras took his iPhone away for the third time that evening. Seriously, how did Courfeyrac keep getting the thing back?

“That doesn’t excuse the objectification of women,” Enjolras replied sternly.

“I never said they had to be female. Fuck your heterosexism, man.”

“Stop being facetious.”

Courfeyrac stuck out his tongue. “Fine,” he said, “If there are no strippers, then I will have to remove my own clothes. Again. I hope you appreciated that I put my top back on after the laser shooting.”

“I would appreciate it more if you kept it on now,” said Enjolras.

Courfeyrac responded by pulling the t-shirt over his head, and throwing it at Enjolras. This was the moment that it started to go downhill.

The next step in the snowballing disaster was when Feuilly – who always carried marker pens in his pockets, for some indiscernible reason – was persuaded to draw a face on Courfeyrac’s abdomen. It was a very good face, and this was the problem, because then everybody wanted one.

And then Grantaire removed his shirt.

It was pure torture.

Enjolras found himself in a terrible struggle between not wanting to stare at Grantaire, and really wanting to stare at Grantaire. At one point, the cynic initiated an argument about fair trade fabrics, and Enjolras had to concentrate so fiercely on not looking down that he was unable to rebut several of his points. Of course, Grantaire had no idea what was going on, and soon decided that Enjolras must be ill. Then he insisted on feeling Enjolras’ forehead. He may not have had a fever, but being in such close proximity to Grantaire’s bare chest, as the man pressed a hand to his face, undoubtedly made his skin burn.

As soon as he was able, Enjolras escaped and pulled Combeferre to one side.

“I need some guidance.”

Combeferre nodded in agreement, as if he had been expecting as much (Enjolras had long since given up trying to fathom his best friend’s uncanny omniscience when it came to his thoughts), and ushered him away from the others. Enjolras took a seat at a nearby table, and Combeferre sat opposite to him, steepling his fingers and leaning forwards in patient attentiveness. Most likely, Combeferre already knew exactly what this was about.

“So,” said Enjolras. “You know that time that Éponine came over to talk to me?”

Combeferre’s mouth quirked in a small smile. “You mean when she slapped you round the face?”

“I prefer to remember it as a civil conversation,” said Enjolras, scowling slightly. “In any case, do you recall the… subject of the discourse?”

“I remember that it involved certain threats, and the assertion that you have absolutely no romantic inclinations towards our half-naked groom over there.”

It took a colossal effort of will for Enjolras not to turn around and follow Combeferre’s gaze. “Well,” he said, “Some things which were covered in that dialogue have, since then, proven to be incorrect.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, you know what I’m talking about,” said Enjolras.

“I might be wrong.”

Enjolras sighed. He really hated discussing feelings. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

“I rather think so,” said Combeferre, grinning at him.

“Fine. I’m in love with Grantaire. There: are you happy?”

Combeferre reached across the table to clap him on the shoulder. “Very. Now, what are we going to do about it?” he asked.

“What _can_ we do about it?” Enjolras had already envisioned a thousand scenarios in which he had won back Grantaire’s affections, none of which would work in practice.

Combeferre gave a thoughtful ‘hmm’, and tapped his chin in a pantomime of consideration. “It seems to me that you have two options,” he said. “Firstly, you could always tell him how you feel.”

“No!” said Enjolras. “That’s not a possibility. I mean, even if we ignore Éponine’s threats, and the promise I made to keep my distance – which is a pretty big ‘if’, to begin with – it would hardly be fair to Grantaire, or to Éponine. They’re getting married _tomorrow_ – I can’t just disrupt that.”

“In that case,” said Combeferre, “Option two is that you sit back and do nothing.”

“But I can’t do _that_ either,” Enjolras protested, “This whole thing is agonising, ‘Ferre. I always thought that Pontmercy over-exaggerated when he was moping over Cosette, but it really does feel that bad. I see Grantaire and Éponine holding hands, or something stupid like that, and I get this twisting feeling like I’ll never be happy again.”

“Watch it: you’re turning into Jehan.”

“This isn’t funny, ‘Ferre!”

“I didn’t say it was,” Combeferre reassured him. “I just never thought that I’d hear you talking so expressively about your feelings. It’s weird.”

“So tell me what to do,” Enjolras demanded.

“You’re at something of an impasse,” said Combeferre. “If you want my opinion, I’d say that you should talk to him about this, ASAP. The worst thing you could do is leave it too late.”

“Isn’t it already too late?”

“Perhaps,” said Combeferre, which wasn’t extremely helpful. “But you asked for my opinion, and I’ve given it. I can’t help you any further, not until you’ve made up your mind about what to do. Tell him, or lose him; it’s your choice.”

Enjolras groaned in response, covering his face with his hands.

“While you do that very important introspective inspection,” said Combeferre, standing up, “I’m going to go and stop Courfeyrac from doing something foolish with that lighter and– Oh, no, too late.”

Enjolras kept his head down as his friend rushed off to control whatever disaster was unfolding at the hands of Courfeyrac. What should he do?

If he pursued option one, then he’d have a murderous Éponine, a thoroughly confused Grantaire, and the possibility of destroying a valued friendship. On top of that, he had to think about what was best for Grantaire: despite the fact that his marriage to Éponine would be a sham, it was still an intelligent arrangement, appeasing his parents, ensuring their financial aid, and legally validating his special relationship to Éponine. She had been his support system for many years, and – in truth – who would make a better partner for Grantaire? Éponine had a unique understanding of Grantaire, a fiery protectiveness, and uncountable shared interests with him.

Enjolras couldn’t offer anything close to that. What he had told Grantaire all that time ago was still true: he would make a terrible boyfriend, always ditching dates in lieu of studying, voluntary work, and activism. As for compassion and emotional support – Enjolras was so out-of-touch with his own feelings that it had taken him forever to realise that he was in love with Grantaire. How could he possibly help Grantaire with his problems, if he couldn’t even deal with his own?

Even so, another part of Enjolras was screaming at him that he needed to act now, that he couldn’t stand to see Grantaire marry Éponine, and that all of the drawbacks wouldn’t matter, because he loved Grantaire, goddammit. He’d never believed in those ‘love conquers all’ stances taken by people like Marius and Jehan, but somehow everything felt different now that he was on this side of the field…

He had no idea what to do. He didn’t even know what the _right_ thing to do was, and that was scary – he’d lived his whole life feeling certainty and conviction at every single issue.

The internal debate continued to plague Enjolras all night, and he eventually excused himself to go home early, conceding to Grantaire’s accusations of illness. Even as he flopped into bed, his mind was whirring.

He truly hoped that things, as the old adage suggests, would be clearer in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ('the final countdown' begins to play)


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it is the wedding day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys i am so sorry about how long this has taken to be uploaded - i've had it completed for ages, but i've been without internet so i really hope you can forgive me! this chapter is kind of really long, probably because i initially planned it to be two chapters and then changed my mind  
> thank you so much for sticking through this until the end - i hope it doesn't disappoint :)

Éponine awoke to a cheery beeping; a noise which was vaguely familiar, but not quite identifiable. She wondered absently what it was.

Before she could get to serious speculation, her thoughts were interrupted by a flash of light searing through her eyelids. She shot up, immediately on alert, her hands raised in anticipation of a fight before she had even opened her eyes. She looked around blearily for an assailant.

Instead, she found a giggling Cosette, pointing a digital camera in her direction.

“I’m documenting the big day,” said the girl, pressing the shutter-release button again, making the beeping reprise.

Éponine winced away from the following flash. “Wha’s th’ time?”

“Time for you to get up! Azelma’s making crêpes downstairs, so you’d better hop to it if you want some.”

“Azzie can’t cook,” Éponine yawned, but obediently wriggled out of Cosette’s guest bed (they’d all stayed at Cosette’s house in order to make things easier), and accepted the dressing gown that was handed to her.

“Papa’s teaching her,” said Cosette brightly.

It was border-line indecent for her to be so chirpy this early in the morning, thought Éponine, as she followed the girl downstairs. Éponine may not have known the exact time, but through chinks in the wooden-slatted window blinds, she could see that it wasn’t yet light. Never mind indecent, it was downright unnatural.

On entering Cosette’s kitchen, Éponine was greeted with the warm, buttery smell of crêpe-making, and a tableau that beggared belief: Azelma, stood at the stove, wearing an _apron_ and holding a _frying pan_. At her elbow, Valjean was whisking a bowl of batter with formidable force, and explaining the process to Azelma.

“You have to really get the air into it if you want to avoid lumps – that’s the thing with using plain flour. The Americans normally use self-raising, but that leaves you with those little pancakes. Cosette and I have always preferred proper crêpes.”

Azelma was nodding along, looking genuinely interested as she melted butter in the pan.

Tearing her eyes away from the strange pair, Éponine’s vision next alighted upon the kitchen clock; it was one of those great, old-fashioned wooden things, which tick audibly and need winding once a week with a funny key. It was a lovely clock, but it also alerted Éponine that it was currently 6:12 AM, so her feelings towards it were somewhat ambivalent.

Cosette, following her gaze, only grinned more enthusiastically. “Isn’t it exciting?” she asked, “Only six hours and eighteen minutes until you become Mme Grantaire!”

“You know I’m keeping my name, right?”

“I was speaking figuratively,” Cosette replied, undeterred. “It would be pretty weird if you did change your name to Éponine Grantaire.”

“Yep,” said Éponine, “And can you imagine how _Les Amis_ would react if I – God forbid – took my husband’s name? Enjolras would have my guts for garters.”

A cackle behind Éponine alerted her to the arrival of Musichetta.

“What’s so funny?” asked Éponine, squinting at the other girl in suspicion.

“Sorry,” said Musichetta, gliding past her to take a seat at the table. “I was just imagining Enjolras in garters. And now I’m imagining him in, like, full-out lingerie. I’m not sure if it’s hilarious or erotic. Maybe both.”

Valjean cleared his throat loudly.

“So, Cosette,” said Azelma hurriedly, presumably trying to distract everyone from the sudden awkwardness. “Now that we’re all up, why don’t you run through the plan?”

Cosette nodded, and pulled an incredibly thick wedge of paper from her pocket. Éponine had the feeling that it was going to be a long day.

 

\---

 

Grantaire had the feeling that it was going to be a long day. He’d only just woken, but he already knew that this was the case, because his wake-up call had been Courfeyrac’s obnoxious _High School Musical_ alarm tone. He’d had to get up and turn it off himself, because apparently Courfeyrac could sleep through anything.

It had seemed like a good idea at midnight last night, when Courfeyrac suggested that he sleep over Grantaire’s to make sure that he was awake when the other groomsmen arrived. Of course, in their inebriated state, neither of them had considered Courfeyrac’s track record when it came to rising early.

At least, Grantaire reasoned with himself as he fumbled to silence Zac Efron’s voice, he wasn’t hung-over. It was a good job that Joly had insisted on regulating alcohol consumption.

“Get up, Courf,” Grantaire said, nudging the man who was passed out on his bedroom floor. “Enjolras and the others will be here soon. You need at least to be upright.”

Courfeyrac groaned, and swatted at Grantaire’s hand.

“Come on. You gotta get’cha head in the game,” said Grantaire.

“Five more minutes.”

“I’m going to have a shower, and if you’re not awake when I’m finished then I reserve the right to use brute force,” Grantaire warned him.

In the shower, Grantaire discovered that Feuilly’s marker pen had been permanent. Really permanent. He had to ask Feuilly where he was getting his art supplies, because the pen was amazingly high-quality: the ink barley smudged under the deluge, even when he scrubbed at it properly.

After a few minutes, he gave up trying to remove it. It shouldn’t matter that he had a face drawn on his stomach in sharpie, anyway – not under his shirt and suit and everything. It _probably_ wouldn’t show through the shirt’s material.

He left the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and returned to his room in search of clothing.

Courfeyrac was still on the floor, but he was sitting upright, so that was some improvement.

“Nice ink,” he said, indicating Grantaire’s newest decoration. “Get it? Because it’s ink like a tattoo, but also it’s actually ink,” he chuckled.

“Tattoos are actually ink, dipshit,” Grantaire told him, grabbing his suit from where it hung on the bedroom door. According to Éponine, he was allowed to put on the shirt and trousers now, but could only add the waistcoat, jacket, and tie at the last minute. She didn’t trust him not to spill anything on himself. This was a wise decision on her part.

“Besides,” Grantaire added, “I’m pretty sure you have a matching one.”

Courfeyrac lifted the hem of his t-shirt to check. “Oh yeah. Well, whatever. I like it.”

After a little more coaxing from Grantaire, Courfeyrac was persuaded to leave the floor and use the shower before the others arrived, and Grantaire was left to dress in peace.

Whatever one might say about Courfeyrac, he and Cosette had done an excellent job on the wedding outfits. Even with half of the suit still on the hanger, Grantaire looked smarter than he could ever remember. The dark trousers were sufficiently boring for his parents to approve, but the slim fit showcased his leg muscles (the painful en garde stance in fencing was good for something, after all), and the shirt’s fabric did manage to obscure his new ‘tattoo’. He was never going to be handsome, but he probably wouldn’t ruin the wedding photographs now.

Once dressed, Grantaire begrudgingly cleared up Courfeyrac’s camp bed, and then moved to the kitchen to put some water on the boil. Then he made himself some toast. Then he did the dishes. Then he checked the time on his phone. It was now 6:45 AM, which meant that Courfeyrac had been in the shower for about half an hour. Grantaire didn’t like to think about what he was doing in there, but the man would definitely be paying him back for the water bill.

At something of a loose end, he decided to text Éponine.

 

 **R:** good morning my darling. you feeling ready?

 

She texted him back pretty swiftly, which he took to mean that she was as bored as he was.

 

 **Ép:** ugh we hav 2 go meet mum in 10 mins i could def do w/out that

 **Ép:** cosette says 2 remind u 2 giv enj the money 4 the vendors

 **R:** like i'd forget something as important as that!

 

Grantaire pressed ‘send’, and then immediately took to rummaging through the kitchen drawers to find the envelopes of cash. Thank God for Cosette.

 

 **Ép:** now shes saying i hav 2 giv her my phone so she can ‘‘‘screen my calls’’’

 **Ép:** ttyl xxx

 

The sound of running water finally cut off, and Courfeyrac emerged, wearing one of Grantaire’s towels around his waist. Grantaire probably wouldn’t ask for it back.

“At long last,” said Grantaire. “Put some clothes on – you have, like, five minutes before the others get here.”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me.” His gaze drifted over to the phone in Grantaire’s hand. “You’re not texting Ép, are you?” he enquired. “You’re not allowed to do that. It’s bad luck.”

“It’s only bad luck to _see_ the bride. And even then it’s just a dumb superstition.”

“Nevertheless,” said Courfeyrac, holding out his hand. “I’m pretty sure that the best man is meant to look after your phone, so that you aren’t distracted from your groomly duties.”

“You aren’t the best man,” Grantaire reminded him.

“I’m the substitute until he gets here,” said Courfeyrac. He paused, and eyed Grantaire calculatingly. “If you don’t give it to me, then I’ll tell Éponine about that one time we tried on her underwear.”

“I hate you,” said Grantaire, tossing the phone to him.

 

\---

 

The dim pre-dawn light did, indeed, bring with it a decision for Enjolras. He hadn’t slept much; lying awake for most of the night, trying to fathom the best course of action, but in the small hours of the morning had managed to slip into a restless state of unconsciousness, punctuated with strange, kaleidoscopic dreams.

In one, he saw Éponine and Grantaire, their hair greying and their faces marked with laugh-lines, sat cosily on the veranda of a gîte, sipping red wine and watching a picturesque sunset. Éponine leant against Grantaire’s shoulder, and he had an arm wrapped around her waist: they looked contented – happier than Enjolras had ever seen either of them.

Another dream showed Éponine, in the beautiful champagne wedding dress that Cosette had painstakingly chosen; but now the gown was sullied and ripped, mascara ran down Éponine’s cheeks, and she was cursing loudly. In the distance, Enjolras could see himself, tugging at Grantaire’s arm, and leading the other man away from his best friend. Grantaire kept glancing backwards, looking heart-broken, but the other Enjolras was merciless in his pull.

He woke, covered in a cold layer of sweat.

The meaning of these images, thrown forwards by his unconscious mind, was clear. He had to ignore his stupid feelings, and let Grantaire marry Éponine. As for Enjolras: it would undoubtedly be painful to watch the man he loved marry someone else – even more-so to be the one handing over the wedding rings and leading the speeches – but it would be much, much worse to ruin everything that Grantaire had built so carefully for himself. Enjolras would just have to banish his emotions to some deep mental corner. It was for the best.

That knowledge didn’t change the fact that his heart seemed to shudder as he waited at Grantaire’s front door. His body was yet to catch up with his mind’s resolutions.

Combeferre, glancing askance at Enjolras, sighed at his expression. “I take it you’re decided?”

“I’m letting it go,” said Enjolras, keeping his voice purposefully steady.

Combeferre gave a solemn nod, and then rung the bell. Enjolras found himself holding his breath in anticipation of seeing Grantaire. Which was so ridiculous.

They were greeted, instead, by a half-naked Courfeyrac thrusting a phone and several envelopes in their direction.

“Thank you?” said Enjolras, taking the proffered items gingerly. “What are you giving me, exactly?”

“Cash for the vendors, and Grantaire’s phone. You’re screening his calls, or whatever.”

Enjolras stowed the envelopes inside his jacket – he and Combeferre were already fully suited, unlike certain other people – and examined the phone.

He was suddenly tempted to look through Grantaire’s old messages, his drafts, his photos; to learn more about him, and maybe about how he saw Enjolras. Perhaps there’d be an answer hidden somewhere in there: a signal that Enjolras should act on his feelings. But he had made his decision, and he wasn’t going to involve himself with Grantaire any further. That meant no more ‘what ifs’, and no more second-guessing, and – above all – no snooping into Grantaire’s private life.

He tucked the phone into his pocket.

 

\---

 

When Éponine had been little – before her mother and father had gone out of business, and back when they had been _parents_ to the girls – they had lived near a wonderful park, where they had gone often to play. Along with the fragrant beds of rosemary and geraniums, the pebbled pathways, and the grassy lawns, the park’s main allure had been a river that burbled alongside the football pitch.

Éponine and Azelma had sometimes made little boats out of scrap paper, and set them racing in the water – the current would wash them along, dashing them against the earthy banks and the crooked roots of trees, and sometimes the boats would appear to be trapped in a particularly impenetrable tangle, but the force of the water would set them moving once again, every time. It was that image – of a fragile paper boat, caught in the hegemonic current, being propelled at break-neck speed towards its destination by forces that were beyond its control – that came to Éponine’s mind that morning, as Cosette hurried her around between various appointments.

The girl was a force of nature.

They were now at the bridal salon, and Éponine was being fully primped and preened: her chewed nails expertly manicured, her hair coiffured, her face made-up, and then – finally – the wonderful wedding dress was brought into the room. Éponine had forgotten how perfect it was: the iridescent chiffon caught the light in an ethereal shimmer; lace detailing around the hem accentuated the full, ball-gown skirt; and the champagne colour created an aura of antiquated elegance, as if it had been plucked straight from the world of Hans Christian-Anderson. Azelma and Musichetta – neither of whom had seen the gown in-person – literally gasped at its entrance.

The fairy-tale illusion was more-or-less shattered when the time came to struggle into the dress.

The first part was easy enough – Éponine had only to step into the dress, and then the dressmaker pulled it up for her. The hard part was manoeuvring the extremely-tight bodice over her hips, and into position around her waist and chest, all while keeping it perfectly in-line, and without either creasing the dress or disrupting Éponine’s hair-do. It required the help of every one of Éponine’s party, and a lot of poking, squeezing, wriggling, twisting, and sucking-in-of-Éponine’s-stomach. It was also mildly humiliating, as Éponine couldn’t wear a bra with the dress, and had only two pieces of nipple-tape between her and an unwelcome experience in lesbianism. But, eventually, they succeeded in getting her robed.

Everyone stood back to admire their handiwork.

“You look wonderful,” said her mother, clasping both hands over her heart in something akin to pride.

 “How do you feel?” asked Cosette.

“Bloody hot. It’s like wearing fucking thermal gear.”

“It’s a good job we remembered the talcum powder,” laughed Musichetta, “Can you imagine the chafing you’d get if we hadn’t applied it?”

Éponine stared at her. “What talcum powder?”

Musichetta’s eyes widened cartoonishly. “Oh shit.”

By now, it was far too late for Éponine to undress, apply the talcum powder, and then re-dress, so the group of women had to think outside the box.

“Could we just leave her to chafe?” asked Azelma, and then ducked a badly-aimed swat from Éponine.

“What if we, sort of, hoisted her upside-down?” suggested Musichetta, looking at Éponine appraisingly. “She’s not that heavy – we could probably hold her by her ankles.”

“That’s not the worst of ideas,” said Cosette. “We could certainly at least lay her flat, and then someone could, uh, crawl under the skirt and apply the powder.”

Which is how Éponine ended up spread-eagled on the floor, with Cosette on hands-and-knees between her legs, mostly hidden by the skirt.

It was at this moment that Marius arrived.

“Uh…” he squeaked, flushing an interesting shade of magenta. “I can come back later.”

Azelma helpfully started cackling like a witch.

“She’s just powdering my thighs,” Éponine reassured him, and then realised that – to be honest – the statement didn’t much help the situation. “It’s to prevent chafing.”

“Hi sweetie,” came the muffled voice of Cosette, filtered through several layers of fabric. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

“Um,” said Marius, eyes flitting around as if he didn’t know where to look. “You look nice, ‘Ponine.”

“I’ll look nicer when I’m not lying on the floor.”

“Yes, I suppose that might be the case. Shall I just, um, wait here?” he asked, glancing at Azelma, who was now wiping tears from her eyes and gripping Musichetta for support.

“I won’t be a tick,” said Cosette.

After a few seconds, the girl emerged from Éponine’s skirts, like the kraken from the deep. If the kraken was pretty and blonde. And covered in talcum powder.

Éponine tried also to sit up, but was unable to do so. She waved at Musichetta to indicate that she needed help. Musichetta waved back, because she was a sarcastic little so-and-so.

“Did you want something in particular?” asked Cosette, standing and brushing herself off, before going to kiss Marius on the cheek.

“I’ve been sent to check how everything is, offer my services, that kind of thing.”

“Aren’t you meant to be helping Grantaire?” said Éponine, who had just about managed to struggle into a sitting position. She felt slightly more dignified than before, but that wasn’t much of a feat.

“I got re-assigned,” said Marius.

Cosette tutted. “What did you do?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” said Marius immediately, with all the conviction of a wronged five-year-old. “Enjolras started arguing with me, after I said one tiny little thing about taxation. He’s in a really bad mood for some reason – he’s been picking fights all morning. He nearly bit Courf’s head off when he refused to get dressed.”

“Wait,” said Musichetta, “Why was Enjolras refusing to get dressed?”

“Not Enjolras – Courfeyrac.”

“That makes more sense.”

Éponine cleared her throat. “I’m still on the floor,” she reminded them.

“Oh, gosh,” said Marius, instantly rushing to help her. “Sorry: I didn’t think.”

Éponine, once standing, assured him that it was fine. She also made a mental note to kick the respective asses of her bridal party as soon she was in more suitable clothing.

\---

Enjolras had been trying not to vent his bad mood upon his friends, but – as Combeferre scolded him for scaring away Marius – he realised that he was failing pretty badly.

“You’d better text Cosette with an apology,” said Combeferre.

“Why should I apologise? Pontmercy was the one making preposterous assertions about fiscal policy.”

“Enjolras…”

“Fine!” Enjolras snapped. “Here, I’m texting her now. Are you happy?”

“I’m delighted,” said Combeferre, sounding anything but.

Enjolras tapped out a quick message to Cosette.

 

 **Enjolras:** Please tell Marius that I apologise for pointing out his wrongness.

 **Cosette:** and Marius apologises for being wrong x

 **Cosette:** Ép wants you to warn R that he’ll have to help her wash talc off her legs later x

 **Enjolras:** Will do.

 

He wondered for a moment why Éponine was covered in talc. Come to think of it, why would she need Grantaire’s help to remove it? It wasn’t like legs were particularly difficult to wash… For some horrific reason, a sudden image of Grantaire’s tongue, running slowly over Éponine’s inner thighs, hit him. Enjolras felt a pang of nausea, and scowled at Cosette’s name on the screen. This was definitely her fault.

“If you’re quite finished glaring at your phone,” said Combeferre, prompting Enjolras out of his reverie, “We have to leave in about five minutes.”

Enjolras pushed the unpleasantly explicit pictures out of his mind, and followed his friend to where the groomsmen were putting the final touches to their habiliment. Final touches which were not all in strict adherence with the dress code.

With a sigh, he launched into his best-manly duties.

“Prouvaire: remove that ungodly scarf; Joly: we agreed that the cane was not allowed; Bahorel: those are jeans, not trousers – change them immediately; Courfeyrac: if you do not put a shirt on in the next ten seconds then I will do it for you, and it will not be pleas– Bossuet, why are you wearing crocs? Please tell me this is a joke.”

“I lost my shoes,” said Bossuet abashedly. “And these were the only ones that Joly had in my size.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” said Enjolras, casting around for inspiration. “Does _anybody_ have some smart shoes to lend him?”

“Marius brought a spare pair,” supplied Courfeyrac.

“Great – we’ll have to wait until we meet him at the registry office, though,” Enjolras told Bossuet, and then looked once more around the group. “Prouvaire, I am serious about that scarf.”

Jehan grumbled, but unwound the eyesore from his neck and stowed it in his shoulder-bag.

“Feuilly: you might want to re-tie your laces; Combeferre: you’re fine, naturally; and Grantaire: you’re… Uh…” he broke off, properly looking at Grantaire for the first time since the man had added the rest of the clothes to his person. He looked amazing: a properly-tailored tuxedo highlighting his arm muscles, and green waistcoat and tie complimenting his eyes. It was rather disarming. “Yeah, you’re fine, too,” Enjolras finished lamely.

“Thanks,” said Grantaire, giving him a funny look. Or maybe he was just responding appropriately to the funny look that Enjolras must have been giving him.

Once Enjolras had ascertained that everyone – bar Bossuet – was properly dressed, they all bundled into cars and made for the registry office.

They were on a tight schedule, with half an hour to check that everything was in place, and so everyone set to work when they arrived. Enjolras checked in with the last of the vendors by phone, ensuring that the florists would be delivering in the next few minutes, and that the hotel in which the reception was to be hosted was prepared with all the decorations.

No hitches arose, and soon a plethora of wedding guests began to appear, milling around, greeting one another, and finding seats in the hall. Enjolras and the other groomsmen took charge of welcoming the new-comers, while Grantaire disappeared into a spare room to practise his vows with Bahorel. Through the door, Enjolras could occasionally hear imitations of Éponine in a silly high-pitched voice, which would have merited Bahorel a wallop if the woman had been to hand.

The only snag came ten minutes before the bride was due to arrive, when Enjolras went to phone the wedding photographer – just to check that she knew where she was meeting them after the ceremony – and couldn’t find the number.

“I have it on my mobile,” said Grantaire, when Enjolras interrupted his rehearsal to ask about it. “It’s not saved in the contacts, but we exchanged a few messages about composition a week or so ago. If you scan through my inbox, you should find her there somewhere.”

Enjolras removed himself to the foyer, while scrolling through the messages.

He found the number, and entered it into his own contacts list. Then he looked down at Grantaire’s phone in his hand, inbox open. Resisting the temptation to read through his messages, Enjolras tried to lock the phone. He must have done something wrong, however, because the inbox, rather than closing entirely, was merely replaced with the drafts folder.

Enjolras was about to exit out of it – he really was – but then his own name caught his eye. Several times.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Enjolras perused the folder. There were twenty drafted messages in it, covering the span of several months. Fifteen of the messages were addressed to Enjolras.

It wasn’t snooping if the texts were intended for him, was it?

Enjolras ignored the little voice in his head – which sounded remarkably like Combeferre – that was telling him not to open the messages, and scrolled back up to the top. The timestamp on the first message indicated that Grantaire had intended to send it last night, at 11:35 PM – about half an hour after Enjolras had gone home ‘ill’.

Glancing around to ascertain that no one was watching, Enjolras opened it.

 

 **Grantaire:** he y i hope your’e feelig better i'm sad you had to go home it’’s not th same without you. i just wante dto tell you thanks for the stag do you did greaat! tje lasers were realyl fun and i was so happpy to make you laugh. yo u look super cute wehn you laugh. it makes my heart kindof go “!?” i wish you would

 

The message cut off there, where Grantaire must have decided that drunk-texting Enjolras was a bad idea.

Enjolras goggled at it, feeling sudden heat in his chest.

 _No,_ he told himself, _It doesn’t mean anything. People often exaggerate their feelings of amiability when drunk – how many times has Courfeyrac declared that he loves you? One half-finished text does not prove that Grantaire would be happy for you to ruin his wedding_.

Now that he had started, though, he couldn’t do any more damage by reading the next message. This one was from a couple of weeks ago.

**Grantaire:** i saw a trailer for this tv show today that made me think of you: it had these rehabilitated zombies, and one zombie was ranting about how she shouldn’t have to hide who she was and still deserved respect, and it sounded exactly like what you’d say if you were a zombie. anyway we should watch it together. if you want to. not like a date. unless you wanted it to be a date. but why would you want that i’m just being stupid. except that sometimes when you look at me it’s like… yeah, i’m deleting this message right now

 

Given the lack of mangled spelling, Enjolras could only assume that this message had been written relatively sober.

Enjolras flicked through the other drafts, finding more of the same: half-finished confessions of love; abandoned attempts at asking Enjolras out; even one notable message that started as a sext and ended as a sonnet.

He had to talk to Grantaire.

Enjolras left the foyer, in search of him. The spare room in which he and Bahorel had been rehearsing was now empty, and Enjolras hurried along to the main hall, conjecturing that Grantaire would be in there.

“There you are!” came a relieved voice from behind him.

Enjolras turned to find Marius, who was walking alongside a newly-shod Bossuet.

“‘Ferre sent us to look for you,” Marius said, gesturing for Enjolras to continue along with them. “We’re all ready to start. Grantaire’s already in the wings with the registry person, and we need to be in the waiting room for the procession in about thirty seconds. Do you have the rings?”

“Yes,” said Enjolras, suppressing a sigh and patting his pocket where the ring box created a small lump. It would be impossible to talk to Grantaire now.

But then, what had Enjolras hoped to achieve? The idea of Grantaire jilting Éponine and eloping with him was absurd. Maybe if Enjolras had said something weeks ago, when he’d first realised his feelings, things would have been different, but he’d let his own stupid obsession with rationality get in the way. Now, moments before Grantaire’s nuptials, it was far, far too late. Real life wasn’t like those rom-coms that Marius adored, or those romance novels that Courfeyrac had stashed away, or the poetry that Jehan collected: love didn’t conquer all, and Enjolras had fucked up all of his chances.

All that was left was to hand the sodding rings over and be done with it.

Marius led Enjolras into the room where the wedding processional waited, everyone looking excited and nervous in equal parts. Éponine, who stood with M Thénardier and Azelma (who had been appointed maid of honour), looked like she might be sick.

Moments after Enjolras had circumnavigated the throng to stand with Azelma, whom he would be escorting, an usher came to call Mme Thénardier and Grantaire’s parents to be seated.

Everyone hurried to get into the correct order: Cosette and Musichetta taking the lead, followed by Joly and Bossuet, Combeferre and Jehan, Courfeyrac and Marius, Bahorel and Feuilly, and then Azelma and Enjolras bringing up the rear, before the bridal march could ensue. Enjolras politely held out his arm for Azelma to take: he didn’t know her very well – their longest interaction had been when she’d broken into his house with Grantaire, and tried to rob him. Hopefully that wouldn’t sully their coalition in the procession.

Shortly, the usher re-appeared to indicate that their cue had arrived. Enjolras tried to force his features into a smile – a task that was normally challenging without genuine happiness, and that he was now finding nigh-impossible – and then it was the turn of him and Azelma to quit the room.

They passed along the corridor, and then they were through the double-doors of the hall, and trailing up the aisle to the not-really-altar at the opposite wall. Grantaire already stood there, looking completely stunning, and seemingly unfased by the crowd. However, when Enjolras examined him more closely, he noticed that Grantaire’s fingers were twitching at his side, as if groping for a bottle, or – perhaps – a paintbrush. For someone who knew him, this was a sure sign that he was terrified.

As the procession reached the front, they split in two: one half coming to stand to Grantaire’s right, and the other half to the left, where Éponine would soon join them. Enjolras and Azelma were last, and Enjolras was almost reluctant to separate from Azelma and halt beside Grantaire, because now he had nothing to prevent him from doing something stupid. Except, that was, for the irritating voice of common sense in his head.

And then the bridal march began.

Éponine, arm-in-arm with M Thénardier, glided into the room. She wasn’t normally an elegant woman – more of a street-cat than a tigress – but the glimmer of her dress, her upright bearing, her expression of anticipation, all seemed to imbue her with an uncharacteristic grace. Behind her, Gavroche carried the train of fabric, so that she seemed almost to float along.

Glancing at Grantaire out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras saw that his expression was of sheer delight: no groom who was truly in love with his bride could have looked more devoted at that moment. But, accompanying that, Enjolras couldn’t help but notice, Grantaire’s fingers were now moving more sporadically than ever before, even drumming lightly against his leg on occasion. Enjolras wondered if he was having second thoughts. Hoped that he was.

Éponine finally reached the front, and faced Grantaire with an anxious smile. Something in her eyes made Enjolras think that maybe she, too, was suddenly unsure about this.

The registry clerk cleared her throat, and then spoke with a clear, ringing voice.

“Please be seated,” she instructed, waiting a moment for the request to be fulfilled, and then launched into the opening remarks. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” she began, “We are gathered here to witness the joining together of this man and this woman in matrimony,” and Enjolras noted that here Grantaire stiffened slightly, “Which is an honourable estate, not to be entered into unadvisedly, but reverently and faithfully.”

The registry clerk turned to face M Thénardier, who stood at Éponine’s side. “Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”

“Her mother and me,” came the reply, which was certainly less euphonic than the traditional response.

The clerk nodded, and then again addressed the audience. “We are here in the presence of friends and family to celebrate one of life’s greatest relationships – the union which we call marriage. As we join together Grantaire and Éponine in this marriage…”

She continued on, but her voice was drowned out in Enjolras’ ears by the rushing of his pulse. He felt his stomach flip, and the air in his lungs felt somehow too thin. It was really happening. And, he realised suddenly, he couldn’t let it. Yes, it was too late. Yes, it was irrational. Yes, Combeferre would be _so_ mad at him. He didn’t care.

“…Into this estate these two people come now to be joined,” the registry clerk was saying, and Enjolras recognised the speech as the precedent to his final chance. “If anyone here can show just cause why they may not be lawfully married,” she went on, “Speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

And, almost without his being conscious of doing so, Enjolras was opening his mouth and saying that terribly trite, Hollywood-fabricated line: “I object!”

 

\---

 

Grantaire spun round, sure that he had misheard.

Enjolras was looking directly him, face calmly confident, shoulders back, and head thrown high; he recognised the blonde’s speech-making face instantly.

“W-what?” said Grantaire, hardly daring to speak.

“I object,” Enjolras repeated, without even a waver in his voice.

Around them, Grantaire could feel every eye in the room turned in their direction. A few nervous titters came from the audience, but most people were holding their breath, waiting.

“Well,” said the registry clerk, sniffing embarrassedly. “Um, this doesn’t normally happen. I… well, I suppose that you’d better explain yourself,” she said to Enjolras.

Enjolras nodded, not taking his eyes from Grantaire for a second. His gaze was burning with all the revolutionary fervour that was ordinarily reserved for the Cause, and he wore an expression that was, in Grantaire’s eyes, both terrifyingly determined and indescribably tender.

“Grantaire,” he said, “I’m really sorry to do this now – I know that I should have spoken sooner, but even I make mistakes from time to time. I’ve made so many mistakes in the past: I’ve been unwelcoming to you, and I’ve treated you unfairly – although I hope you know that I’ve never been intentionally cruel – yet my biggest mistake by far has been misinterpreting my own feelings, and then, when I finally understood them, never admitting to them. So, here I am, remedying this now, before it really is too late.”

Grantaire could feel a feeble hope sputtering in his heart, and he tried to ignore it, because this couldn’t possibly be what it looked like. There was no way that Enjolras was saying what it sounded like he was saying. It was most likely a horrible joke, or a hallucination, or maybe Enjolras was about to protest Grantaire’s marriage because he and Éponine were not a couple in the traditional sense.

“Please believe me,” Enjolras was telling him, “When I say this, even though I have done a terrible job at demonstrating it.” He paused, and took a deep breath. “Grantaire, I love you.”

There was a scandalised gasp from the direction of Mme Thénardier, and Grantaire’s entire mind fizzed. Enjolras was fixing him with an imploring gaze, and Grantaire realised that he was meant to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. He could hardly breathe, let alone form a sentence.

After several agonising moments, Éponine thwacked the back of his head.

“What the fuck are you waiting for, you nob?” she asked. Her grin told him that this was her way of granting permission: she was cool with it.

Grantaire swallowed, trying to force his throat into working. “Can you say it again?” he croaked.

Enjolras’ face lit up with one of those breath-taking, heart-stopping, knee-weakening smiles of his, and he stepped closer. One of his hands found one of Grantaire’s – which Grantaire now realised had been shaking heavily – and he brought the other up to rest against Grantaire’s cheek, as he had done on that New Year’s Eve that seemed millennia ago. “I love you,” he repeated.

“I love you, too,” Grantaire managed to get out, before he was silenced by Enjolras kissing him.

There was a stunned silence, and then a thud (which Grantaire would later discover to be caused by his father, fainting), and then applause from the direction of their friends. But Grantaire didn’t give a fuck about any of that – he barely noticed it – because right now he was far too lost in the feeling of Enjolras, pressed against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so anyone who's seen enough dreadful rom-coms probably saw that ending coming, but i hope that you can excuse the predictability  
> thank you for reading, guys <333


	21. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is one final addition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after over a year's worth of reflection, i have decided that this needs an epilogue. so here it is

Grantaire paused to take one final look around the apartment. The familiar wallpaper, the doors, the beaten old sofa – all of it seemed strange without the clutter of his and Éponine’s possessions that normally covered it. So many memories had happened in this space, he thought with a pang. His life here had been good. Mostly. As good as his life had ever been. And now he was leaving it behind… All so that he could move in with Enjolras.

A sudden wave of terror flooded over him, and he was forced to prop himself against the doorframe and focus on his breathing. He had to _control_ this ridiculous self-doubt that had been plaguing him for weeks. He tried desperately to squash the voice at the back of his head that was telling him he wasn’t good enough for Enjolras; that he would ruin everything; that living together would reveal all the awful parts of Grantaire that he had managed to hide from Enjolras thus far.

“Resting on the job, I see!” Éponine’s teasing interrupted his meltdown-in-progress.

Grantaire smiled unconvincingly at her. “Something like that,” he agreed.

“Not having second thoughts, are you?”

Grantaire internally cursed Éponine for her ability to read him at a glance. “It’s… God, it’s really happening,” he replied. “I know that it was happening before, but now, looking at the apartment all clean and tidy like this, it’s _really_ happening. It can’t be happening! I’m not ready.”

“Yes you are,” Éponine told him. “Just yesterday you said that if you had to spend another minute living with my shower-singing then you would literally kick a puppy.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Grantaire. “This was a terrible idea. I’ll move in with Enjolras and he’ll finally realise what a nightmare I am. What if he gets sick of me? What if he starts to hate me again? No, I can definitely live with your singing.”

Éponine smiled devilishly, jumped up on the sofa, threw back her head, and began to murder a song that might once have been ‘What Makes You Beautiful.’ It was hard to tell, as the words were lost in the sheer volume of her rendition.

Grantaire, covering his ears and wincing, shouted in protest. “Okay, okay, okay! I take it back! Please, for the love of all that is holy –”

“So you _haven’t_ changed your mind?”

“No,” said Grantaire, sulkily.

“Good,” said Éponine, “because I didn’t spend _months_ applying for a mortgage for my own place just to cancel at the last minute. Also, Courfeyrac just texted to say that he’s waiting outside.”

Taking one _final_ final look back, Grantaire followed Éponine out of their apartment. They locked the door behind them, and Grantaire felt as if a whole section of his life was being locked away, moving from the present into the vaults of the past. He reached into his pocket and felt for the heavy new keys that he’d picked up that morning. The cool metal was reassuring in his fingers: there was a new door for him to open just across the city.

A merry honking alerted them to Courfeyrac’s location, and moments later his head appeared from the window of an idling car. He waved and revved the engine.

“I almost wish we’d asked your dad for a lift instead,” Grantaire muttered to Éponine. He was only half-joking: Courfeyrac did have a tendency to drive like a teenager.

Éponine pretended that she hadn’t heard him and pranced over to Courfeyrac’s car. “I’m calling shotgun!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t this all so _exciting_?”

“Incredibly,” Courfeyrac agreed. “It seems like only a year ago that you were marching down the aisle, ready to commit yourself to a life-long tax evasion scheme. And now look at you! My little babies, all grown up.”

“It _was_ only a year ago,” Grantaire said, climbing into the back seat.

“All grown up,” Courfeyrac repeated.

“How about you just take us to Enjolras, chauffeur?” said Éponine.

“Ah,” said Courfeyrac as he pulled out onto the road. “Yes, about that. There’s been a teensy weensy change of plans. We’re going to the Musain first.”

“What did Enj do this time?” asked Éponine. “Was there a disagreement with the landlord? Oh, I know: I bet the doormat wasn’t Fair Trade.”

“Oi! That’s my boyfriend you’re talking about,” Grantaire objected.

“That’s why I said it.”

Courfeyrac cleared his throat loudly. “ _Ahem_. Don’t you want to know why we’re actually going to the Musain, then?”

“Yes,” said Grantaire, “please tell us.”

“It’s because,” said Courfeyrac, drawing out the vowels in some attempt at suspense, “because… I can’t say! It’s a surprise, and you’ll just have to wait and see.”

No amount of protests could convince Courfeyrac to reveal the mystery, and so Grantaire and Éponine were forced to wait in anticipation until they reached the Café Musain.

Inside the café, Grantaire was surprised to find that the majority of their social circle was already gathered there. It did cross his mind that it might have been some kind of ‘good luck for moving house’ party, but then he caught the looks of perplexity that dotted every face, and realised that no one had any more idea than him about why they were there. Still, it was always good to see all of his friends in one place.

Éponine left his side immediately to pounce on Bahorel and Feuilly, who were playing some intense and painful-looking game which was probably of their own invention. Beside them, Bossuet was umpiring, and Joly and Musichetta sat not far away with steaming mugs of coffee. Jehan was stood to the side, deep in conversation with Combeferre and… In a habitual motion, Grantaire’s eyes slid to rest on Enjolras, who was just turning away from whatever Combeferre was saying to see who had arrived. When he spotted Grantaire, his face lit up in a smile. Even after a year together, Grantaire found it difficult to believe that he could really cause that intense a reaction in Enjolras. He felt his heart give a little jump at the thought.

“Grantaire,” said Enjolras, waving for him to come over. “ _Please_ save me from this suspense and tell me that you know what’s going on?”

“Afraid not,” replied Grantaire. “I’m just following orders from Monsieur Mystery over there,” he added, indicating Courfeyrac.

Enjolras sighed in long-suffering manner. “It really had better be good; I wasn’t exactly hoping to spend my afternoon in the Musain with Courfeyrac playing mind games.”

“Oh no?” asked Grantaire.

“No,” said Enjolras, giving another of those unbelievable smiles. “I was rather intending to spend it moving into my new house with my wonderful boyfriend.”

“Which wonderful boyfriend would that be?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and leaned in to peck Grantaire on the cheek instead of answering.

Before their conversation could continue much further, there was a commotion from the direction of the door, and Marius stumbled in, hand-in-hand with Cosette. They were both flushed; Cosette’s face seemed almost to be shining, and Marius looked as excited as a small child at Christmas.

“Is everyone here?” asked Cosette breathily.

“As of your arrival, yes,” said Combeferre. “We’re all very eager to know what this is about.”

“Perhaps now Courf will _finally_ tell us,” said Joly.

“I’m not the one who called this meeting!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. “I was merely the messenger. For the answers to your questions, you must look to Cosette!”

Everyone turned once more to Cosette. She gave a little wave with her fingers, and Grantaire noticed that she was wearing woollen gloves despite the mildness of the day.

“Yes, Marius and I are the culprits here,” Cosette admitted. “We just wanted– Well, that is to say, we have some news.”

“Exciting news,” said Marius.

“We are happy to say –”

“ _Very_ happy to tell you all –”

“Because we wanted to tell you all first, of course.”

“What it is– Wait, do you want to say it, or shall I?” asked Marius.

“I’ll say it! No, maybe you should?”

Bahorel chose this moment to let out an extended groan of impatience, causing both Marius and Cosette to become rather flustered.

“Oh, I’ll do it, then,” said Cosette. With a flourish, she removed her gloves.

For a moment, Grantaire couldn’t fathom why she had done so, but then a squeal from Jehan made him notice that Cosette was wearing an unfamiliar ring upon her hand – a ring with a glittering diamond set into it. It had to be an engagement ring!

Several cries of “Congratulations!” filled the air, and soon everyone was vying to get a closer look.

“It’s dazzling,” declared Jehan, “I’m so happy! And – to think – we’re finally having a _real_ marriage.” Then he suddenly squinted at the couple with an air of suspicion. “It _is_ a real marriage this time, isn’t it? Because my heart can’t take another tax-evasion scheme that ends in someone getting jilted at the altar.”

“What? No!” cried Marius, clearly offended at the very idea.

“I promise not to jilt you at the altar, sweetie,” Cosette told him reassuringly.

Grantaire noticed that Éponine was hovering on the edge of the action, and drifted over to her. “You okay?” he asked, wondering if her previous infatuation with Marius was rearing its head.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling a little shakily. “It’s just… Well, I used to picture this as being me, you know? It’s strange. I’m not upset or anything, and I couldn’t be more pleased for them, but still. It’s strange.”

Grantaire made a comforting noise and pulled her into a one-armed hug. “Can you imagine marrying Marius, though?” he asked, after a moment. “He’ll probably faint at the altar.”

Éponine laughed against his shoulder. “We’ll have to take that into account when we start planning: make sure the floor is covered in something soft.”

“At least we have lots of experience with planning weddings,” said Grantaire.

“That we do,” she agreed. 

**Author's Note:**

> wow thanks if you've actually read all that. go you! okay it would be cool if you wanted to leave feedback or whatever i'd definitely like that. or you can come speak to me at http://prouvers.tumblr.com/ask


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